


The Expiation Expedition

by IntelligentAirhead, obstinateRixatrix



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Autistic Character, Communication is important to them, Ensemble Cast, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Miscommunication might be a plot point but not between the paladins, Namely Keith, Political Drama, Trans Characters, could possibly fit into canon if you believed hard enough, neurodivergent characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-08-11 12:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 40,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7892101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntelligentAirhead/pseuds/IntelligentAirhead, https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinateRixatrix/pseuds/obstinateRixatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lance is well aware that miscommunications can result in horrific, preferably avoidable mishaps, which is why he tries to circumvent them whenever possible.</p><p>It just figures that the state of an entire planet's fragile political climate rests on him running straight into one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Paladin by Any Other Name (is Still an Immature and Belligerent Jerk)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Breakfast is Broken Fast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this started as an outline that was never going to see the outside of my google docs folder, but Stella is a good cowriter and a fantastic friend who enables the hell out of me when it comes to fic. The next thing I knew, we were back at it again, writing about Feelings in Space. I really hope you enjoy the result!
> 
> Also, shout out to Caim and Chip, our advisors in all things amphibious, reptilian, and vaguely lizard-y.  
> \- Air
> 
> HEY GUYS WE'RE BACK 
> 
> I HOPE YOU'RE READY FOR FAKE MARRIED WRITTEN BY PEOPLE WHO HATE FAKE MARRIED TROPES  
> -Stella

Mornings suck.That’s just objective fact, as immutable as the laws of physics and three times as inconvenient. Waking up is always an agonizing journey through seven awkward transitions amateurly spliced together, starting with ‘what,’ progressing to ‘why,’ sampling four different flavors of ‘no,’ and then settling into a weary resignation to the inevitable: being conscious. Which wouldn’t be so bad if Lance could take a shower or something to wake himself up, but ever since the daily briefings were moved to the top of everyone’s schedule, he'd been forced to adjust.

Theoretically, Lance could just wake up earlier; however, that theoretical Lance lives in a horrific universe where he gets even less sleep than practical Lance has to make do with, which, no. Yet another theoretical Lance takes showers every morning and still makes it to the briefings on time, which is just fine and dandy for him; however, he also probably arrives after Keith, which is just unacceptable.

After all, being forced to cut down on some of their more disruptive (that is, destructive) competitions means that there’s been a limit to what he’s allowed to goad Keith into, and this one in particular is basically a sacred rite by now. Rise with the figurative sun, dress to impress, then bust ass to get to breakfast— no, ‘the daily briefing’— before Keith does.

It’s… still kind of weird, honestly, cutting out the sarcastic quotation marks around what used to be their “friendly” rivalry and phasing it into something that could conceivably be interpreted as an actual friendly rivalry. If the interpretation involved a very loose and generous definition of friendship, anyway. Sure, he’s let go of the overt animosity he used to have—  it’s kind of hard to keep up the vitriol when you’re constantly saving-slash-being-saved-by the person you’re supposed to hate— but there’s a long way to go before he’d be comfortable introducing Keith as his friend. Rival worthy of his respect? Fine. Acquaintance worth getting injured for? Sure! Colleague in the fight to defend the galaxy from evil space imperialism? Yeah, sounds about right. Friend? Whoa there, buddy. That’s a bit too far over the ambiguous, wobbly shape in the sand that was probably a line at some point.

In any case, abridging and adjusting his morning routine is totally worth it for the satisfaction of beating Keith at something. It’s close this time around, but he wins, and that’s what matters. Along with getting to announce it loudly to the rest of the room. Several times.

“How do you have this much energy?” Pidge asks from where she’s slumped against the table, her head nestled in her arms.

“I don’t,” Lance chirps, “I am ready to collapse at any second, Pidge. Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t see the face of a dying man.”

“I’ll pass. Your face is the last thing I want to look at first thing in the morning.”

Lance presses his hand to his heart and gasps. “Do you even know how much work it takes to look this good?”

“If this is what you consider ‘good’, I can’t imagine how you’d look on a bad day.”

To be fair, Lance can admit he left himself wide open for that. He’s kind of impressed at just how swift and brutal retaliation was. A decisive victory. Let it be known, there are moments when it’s appropriate and even downright honorable to withdraw quietly into gracious defeat. This isn’t one. “Man down! Critical injury! My heart is broken and my morale is destroyed; I can’t go on. Think of me fondly, and make sure Keith gets none of my stuff.”

“Wouldn’t want it anyway.” Keith, settling into the chair next to his, manages to convey the most infuriating amount of dismissive indifference possible with barely a raise of his eyebrows.

“Wow!” Lance straightens up, turning to the object of his offense. “Excuse you! What kind of person wouldn't want my awesome space souvenirs?”

“To be fair,” Hunk says, “you tend to pick up whatever’s lying on the ground.”

“What is this, Interplanetary Pick on Lance Day?”

Allura tuts. “Well, that is unfortunate.”

“At least the princess is on my side. My only ally in my time of need.”

“I would have hoped to get a memo if such a widespread celebration were to transpire,” Allura continues, swiftly and completely betraying Lance with painful nonchalance. “Unfortunately, the festivities will have to be put on hold for more pressing matters.”

Lance lets loose something that sounds vaguely like a squawk, then clears his throat to better introduce some of his completely valid concerns. “Excuse me! There are no festivities! None!”

“Well, in that case, we can proceed to to discuss today’s agenda without fear of disrupting anything, can’t we?”

Conversations with Allura can be like going for a walk on a chessboard that only she can see. No matter what move anyone makes, it just cycles back to her checkmate in the end. All the way back to her ultimate agenda of making a flight through space in a techno-magical castle seem _boring_.

“Uh, yeah, hate to interrupt and all,” Hunk says, because they are a shining light in the dark, unfeeling void, completely redeeming their earlier transgressions, “you know I’m all for actually debriefing, instead of being dropped straight into firefights, or smuggler politics, or paying off Coran’s gambling debts without warning—”

“I did apologize!” Coran objects. “And it was an excellent lesson for you all with regards to exposing you to different—”

“But,” Hunk continues, steamrolling ahead, “if I don’t ask now, things will probably just keep going because all our conversations basically follow Newton’s first law at this point.”

Allura considers this before inclining her head, conceding. “That does tend to happen. Go ahead, Hunk.”

“Thanks,” Hunk says, nodding at her. “Alright, so, before we all forget: has everyone taken their meds today?”

Lance sinks down in his chair in a completely inconspicuous manner.

Hunk sighs. “ _Lance._ ”

“Oh _come on_ , don’t ‘ _Lance_ ’ me! I could’ve made a strategic choice to skip. Being able to shift focus quickly could be a huge, untapped advantage in battle!”

And despite that excellent point, Hunk doesn’t look impressed at such legitimate tactical acumen as they cross their arms. Their expression, honestly, looks exactly the opposite of impressed. “Uh huh. That’s definitely why you said, and I’m quoting you here directly, buddy, so don’t try to deny it, ‘Quiznak, I forgot my meds,’ yesterday in group training.”

Lance sinks even lower. He can barely see Hunk over the table, which is kind of the point. “Well, yeah, but that’s _training.”_

“Lance,” Shiro sighs, which is totally unfair. Lance isn’t the only one who forgets things sometimes! Why don’t any of the other paladins get the disappointed name sighs?

“Alright, fine. I’ll take them after breakfast,” Lance grumbles, trying to work his way back to a respectable posture.  He can admit when he’s lost. Except he can’t because he never loses, and he’s not done yet. “Just saying, this would be, like, way easier if you all did the polite thing and held back on the ‘aggressively caring about my personal well being’ thing. Kind of puts a damper on the whole mood.”

“Noted,” Shiro says. “Rejected, but noted.”

Which, as rejections go, isn’t the worst one to experience. It’s comfortable, almost, the way he can expect this sort of response, the kind of exchange that’s so evocative of home, just in space and surrounded by completely different people. Except Hunk. Hunk’s still around, and thank goodness for that.

Of course, in the face of such egregious internal sentimentality, Pidge goes and ruins it.

“Well, I’ve taken _my_ meds,” she chimes in with the same brand of righteous self-satisfaction that all younger siblings seem to perfect.

“Taking them right before you pass out at three in the morning doesn’t count, Pidge.”

Pidge crosses her arms and peers over her glasses, looking exactly like a grouchy librarian, give or take sixty years. “Says the guy who forgets every other day. At least I have a schedule.”

Lance opens his mouth to fire back something— he’s not quite sure what, but he’s sure he has some kind of incredible comeback for that— when Shiro clears his throat.

“Well, I for one am grateful for the reminder. Thank you, Hunk. I’ll be sure to take mine after breakfast.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Hunk says, shrugging. “I mean, helping everyone else remember helps me remember, so, yeah, it’s all good.”

Everyone quiets down, and apparently it lasts long enough for Allura conclude that no one else has anything to say. She rises from the table, and some kind of projection flickers to life across the room. There’s gotta be some keyboard-thing by her seat. Or maybe it’s activated by motion? But also, it doesn’t seem to be projecting from anywhere in particular— it’s just one second empty space and then _bam,_ let there be light. Minus the bam. Heck if Lance will ever understand what kind of space magic the castle-ship is capable of, but he’s slowly getting used to it. Kind of. When it’s not trying to kill him.

Then Allura starts talking, and he refocuses on the actual content of the projection rather than its implausible existence.  

“I’m sure you all remember our expedition to Ga’alus,” she says, gesturing at the projection.

Lance’s first thought is ‘probably not,’ considering every other day involves an expedition of some sort, so it’s kind of hard to keep track; however, to his surprise, he actually does remember the planet slowly turning at the other end of the room. They’d first landed during monsoon season, and it had been the first time in a while that Lance had seen non-lethal rain.

“But it’s only been a few weeks, right?” Hunk asks, which definitely isn’t something that followed Allura’s opening sentence so whoops, looks like there’s been a big chunk of intro he’s just missed.

“Are they being attacked again?” Keith asks. “I thought you’d said that they were pretty low priority for the Galra.”

“No, nothing like that. This visit will be entirely diplomatic in nature.”

Pidge raises her hand, which is basically pointless considering she doesn’t bother waiting to be called on. “Is that really our job? Shouldn’t the planets that are still under Galra control be our priority?”

“Our ‘job’ does not end with the liberation of a planet. It is our duty to provide a tangible commitment to unity and peace, and there’s more than one method to doing that. The Ga’alusians have made concerted— and frankly, astounding— efforts toward restructuring their government and economy. They’ve made enough progress that they wish to formally honor our efforts; it would be remiss of us to slight their gesture of appreciation.”

Lance frowns. Something about that sounds… off. “Are we talking about the same planet here? I thought some of those dudes kind of hated us.”

Allura breaks character for a brief second, slipping from ‘poised and detached ambassador looking absolutely regal’ to ‘just swallowed a lemon but somehow still gorgeous’. “The Kanture are, admittedly, less than enthused, but they’re only a small faction of the Intercavern Alliance. In addition, any objections that might’ve been raised are all but groundless, considering they’d be based entirely on your actions.”

Lance bristles. “What did I do?” He asks, bewildered. He thought he’d done a pretty impressive job, all things considered.

Allura looks at him in surprise, probably because he’s practically jumped onto the table. Which wasn’t exactly necessary, but also, yes it was. “I did not mean that negatively, Lance,” she clarifies. “The S’russ ambassador is alive due to your actions; that’s a very good thing, even if the Kanture believe otherwise.”

“Wait, hold up.” Hunk, raising their own hand, follows Pidge’s example and just launches into their interjection. “Why would anyone want Ambassador Scimi dead? She’s like a really loud, tiny bundle of determination. She offered to swap recipes with me! I mean, every one of them lists bugs as the main ingredient, but still. Nothing about her really gives off ‘target for a gruesome death’ vibes, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m pretty good at picking up on that.”

“We _know_ , Hunk,” Keith and Pidge respond in tandem, to her delight.

“Jinx! You owe me a soda,” Pidge says. “Or, well, a juice pack.”

“What?” For a second Lance is absolutely ready to believe this means Keith’s never heard of jinxing someone, but alas, he shatters the beautiful illusion. “What are we? Twelve?”

Allura clears her throat, crossing her arms. “Paladins,” she prompts, and everyone quiets. “As I was saying, Ambassador Scimi is a prominent S’russ in the Intercavern Alliance; she holds a considerable influence in the General Assembly. Had Lance not rescued the ambassador, there would have been a power vacuum the Kanture could've taken advantage of.”

Lance spreads his arms, almost whacking Keith in the process. “Well, forget that! I’m not sorry for thinking that someone’s life has priority over political crowfood.”

“Somehow I don’t think that there was much thinking involved at the time,” Keith says, staring up at Lance’s arms with all the offended wariness of a cat in the aftermath of an unexpected sneeze.

“Well,” Lance starts, skimming through every possible retort. He’s about to come up with something really scathing, probably, when he’s interrupted mid-thought.

“Those were some good reflexes, though.” Keith shoots him a grin, and that takes the wind out of some entirely justified anger sails. What a jerk.

Lance has no choice but to counter with, “They were. Thank you.”  

“I think we can all agree that Lance made the right call,” Shiro says, and Lance makes no attempt to hide his smug grin at the praise, “but we’ll have to be careful about bringing it up. We’re navigating a sensitive political situation; we all need to be on our best behavior, and be careful not to do anything that attracts too much attention.”

And of course, because their lives are basically a never ending string of hilariously ill-timed coincidences, that’s when the incredibly loud ‘incoming transmission’ alarm sounds off. Kind of like a room-wide ringtone.

There’s a moment of silence, except there isn’t, as everyone stares at Allura.

“Are we going to answer that?” Hunk asks, their question almost lost under the noise.

“Of course we are.” Despite his initial confidence, Keith glances towards the princess as the alarm continues to sound. “Right?”

“ _Yes_ , we’re answering it.” Allura doesn’t quite snap her retort, but that might be because it’s kind of hard to snap while shouting. It just sounds like shouting. “I was taking a moment to gather my thoughts.”

“Well, you might want to gather them faster.” Hunk covers their ears. Unsurprising, since the blaring alarm seems to get louder every second. “I think the castle’s getting mad.”

“It doesn’t have emotions,” Pidge argues, “I made absolutely sure we wouldn't have to worry about anything else trying to kill us—”

"I'll have you know, Altean technology doesn't just malfunction like that! Not without outside influence!" Coran crosses his arm, full of righteous indignation in the defense of patriotic pride. "Anything trying to kill you has probably been made for that purpose."

Allura gestures emphatically for them to shut up, and it sure it satisfying to not be on the other end that for once. Straightening her posture, She takes a deep breath and opens the comms. The projection of the planet is immediately replaced with a live feed of Ambassador Scimi, who immediately lets out a wordless yell.

“My apologies!” She exclaims. “I was just about to cancel the transmission! It just occurred to me that your circadian rhythms might vary quite a bit from ours, and, well, wouldn't that be disruptive! I hope I wasn’t interrupting?” She cocks her head to the side, which sends her snout swinging.

Ga’alusians always make Lance think of those kid’s books where they swap out different animal parts to make something new. They look like armadillos with anteater snouts, if armadillos had six limbs, gecko skin, and tails. Although, armadillos might already have tails— maybe? Lance wasn’t the one who got up close and personal with the desert and its various inhabitants— but whatever tails armadillos may or may not have, they probably aren’t translucent.

Ga’alusians, at least, definitely have tails, and use them expressively whenever possible. The ambassador’s flicks at the edge of the projection every few seconds, which probably indicates some kind of emotion that humans aren’t equipped to process. Luckily, the resident diplomat is.

“Not at all,” Allura assures with her usual aplomb, “your timing was perfect, actually. We were just gathered for a communal exchange of food and information just before you called.”

“Funny way to describe breakfast,” Pidge mumbles, before being nudged into silence by Shiro.

“Wonderful! I realized that the paladins practiced social customs, but I did not realize that it extended to eating.”

“Well, if the paladins are anything, they are social,” Allura says.

“And I am glad of that!” Ambassador Scimi’s snout lifts in what Lance thinks is a sign of happiness, sounding genuinely relieved, which is… kind of concerning. “I fear there will be a great deal of need for social finesse in the coming days.”

The atmosphere of the room shifts. “Days?” Allura repeats. “I apologize; I was under the impression that we were only coming for the ceremony.”

“Oh dear, I’m getting ahead of myself, I didn’t even ask! How presumptuous of me!” The ambassador does what’s probably the Ga’alusian equivalent of slapping her forehead, which involves significantly more tail movement than a human has access to. “You see, there has been a slight change in my schedule. Not slight, actually. Rather large. A large change of schedule. And less of a change in schedule so much as a change in, well, my life.”

Allura is really good at making visceral alarm look like mild concern, all thing considered.

“Are you well, Ambassador Scimi?”

“What? Oh! Oh, no, please don’t be worried on my behalf,” Ambassador Scimi reassures her. “It is actually a change for the better, and one that may closely involve the paladins, should they be willing!” She flicks out her tongue, a quick lick of the air, before continuing.

“My wife and I recently hatched our first child, and the naming ceremony will take place within a few days of your arrival, accordingly. We would very much appreciate your attendance. That is, if your schedule allows it? Not that you’re under any obligation to, of course.”

It’s basically an impossible request to deny, in Lance’s opinion. An opinion Allura apparently shares. “Of course we’ll stay,” she says. “We would be honored to be a part of such an important ceremony.”

“Oh, excellent!” Despite the ambassador’s enthusiasm, she appears to have trouble finding her words for a moment. Her tail flicks a few times at the edge of the projection. “In addition,” she starts, with a deliberation that wasn’t there before, “it is the wish of my wife and myself to name our child after the paladin that saved my life.”

Out of all the explosions Lance has endured, every explosion he’s no doubt yet to endure, none of them could ever come close to this particular bombshell.

“We therefore humbly ask permission to do so.”

“Sure,” he replies, because holy crow, he’s having a kid! Not really. He’s not having a kid. But he _is_ getting a kid named after him, and if that’s not the coolest thing ever, then what is? Like, the whole ‘saviors of the galaxy’ gig is significantly less glamourous than expected, but this is way better than a parade. Better than ten parades! Ten consecutive parades!

Ambassador Scimi chitters in excitement. “Oh, thank you! Thank you so much! I can't wait to tell everyone! Goodness, my wife will be so pleased. I swear, we will raise our child so that they may bear the name Keith with pride.”

Wait. What.

“Wait a second, what?” Lance asks, and he’s standing up from the table before he knows what else to do afterwards because, what?

“What?” Keith asks, which no, that is _not allowed,_ Lance is the only one allowed to have a fully justified emotional reaction here! Lance is the one getting the short end of the misnomer stick, and he is going to get to the bottom of this!

At least, he’s trying to, but his investigative endeavor is significantly hindered by Hunk ushering him back into his seat and Shiro hovering over his chair to make sure he stays, but if they expect that to keep him from asking what the heck is going on, then they have another thing—

“You’re naming your kid after him, right?” Pidge says, pointing at Lance.

“But of course,” Ambassador Scimi confirms.

“That’s Lance.” Pidge jabs a finger at Keith. “That’s Keith.”

There is a moment of silence, and then Ambassador Scimi is yelling. Again. They all wait for her wordless exclamation to die out, then stare at her expectantly.

“If only I had called sooner! Please, accept my belated congratulations! Oh, there is so much to celebrate, I’m just... ” The ambassador’s voice cracks, and oh god, Lance really hopes he is not watching the alien equivalent of crying right now. He has no clue what’s going on, he’s not sure he ever will, and his strongest emotion is a pervasive sense of 'what the heck is happening right now'.

“I am so glad that you two were able to find such happiness in such turbulent times,” Ambassador Scimi says. “I can only wish that my child will find similar joy, and find those that will love them in turn. Thank you for lending them your legacy,” she inclines her head towards Lance, then turns towards Keith, “and thank you for protecting it.”

It feels like a moment that should be filled with heartfelt poignancy, but Lance just feels bewildered. Looking around, he’s not the only one. Allura in particular kind of looks like the sound of cracking glass given physical form.

There’s a sudden clamor offscreen, and the ambassador starts yelling again. “I’m so sorry; it appears I have urgent business to attend to. I really— oh, this is such poor timing. I need more time to congratulate you both properly.” She looks almost as distressed as Lance feels. “As it is, I shall have to abbreviate my well-wishes, but I assure you that I wish you only the best. Congratulations on your new names: Lance, Keith. Protect them well. I’d venture to say they suit you even better than your old ones.” She turns her gaze back to the princess.

“Thank you for accepting this transmission, Princess Allura. I worried that I would be unable to discuss this matter before you all had arrived planetside.”

“It was no trouble at all,” Allura lies, or at least Lance hopes she’s lying because, hello, there is very much trouble! “I look forward to enjoying your hospitality for the next few days.”

She’s definitely lying.

The hologram of the ambassador fizzles out right after what sounds like a suit of armor tumbling down a flight of stairs, and usually that’s the kind of thing Lance would register as something to be concerned about but _right now_ it’s far more important to consider how he got to this point in his life. Where did he go wrong? Is this the price he has to pay for his extremely good looks? His dazzling charisma? His habit of ‘borrowing’ non-essentials from his fellow paladins?

"Well!" Coran, the quickest to recover, breaks the silence. "Congratulations to the happy couple, then!"

“Okay, what? What are you talking about? What just happened?” Hunk asks, bringing Lance back to earth. Figuratively.

“Excellent question!” Lance blurts out, “and one that bears repeating because _what the quiznak just happened?”_

Coran opens his mouth, presumably to explain what the _heck_ he meant by 'happy couple', but Allura stops him.

"Please," she says, "this should probably be handled... delicately, considering who's involved."

Allura takes in a deep breath, stares at them all, then buries her face in her hands and starts to groan.

“Helpful,” Keith says, as if he doesn’t spend eighty percent of his existence making various noises and gestures that serve no purpose other than to communicate his _completely necessary_ disapproval of any given situation.

Shiro clasps his shoulder. “You’re one to talk,” he says. Then, turning to Allura, he adds, “However, clarification _would_ be highly appreciated.”

“I believe an...unfortunate misunderstanding has taken place,” she starts, and boy is it trouble when Allura’s that deliberate with diction.

But also! This seems straightforward enough! “Just call her back,” Lance pleads, “I don't know what's going on, but I sure as heck know that we’ve got to clear it up before it’s too late!”

“It’s too late.” Allura drags a palm down her face, her expression weirdly haggard, which is ringing all sorts of warning bells _on top_ of the sirens that have been going off since Keith Junior came into the picture. “This,” she continues, looking preemptively exhausted, “might complicate matters.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [8/27/16, 7:42:54 PM] Stella: I actually  
> [8/27/16, 7:42:58 PM] Stella: really really like  
> [8/27/16, 7:43:37 PM] Stella: Lance: [overcome with emotion, touched beyond belief] sure  
> [8/27/16, 7:43:45 PM] Air: same


	2. The Beginner's Guide to Accidental Marriage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Marriage Vows and Vows of Vengeance are Basically the Same Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Thank God We're Not in High School' was a title that was legitimately considered, just so you know
> 
> -Stella
> 
> I was in my element for this entire chapter I love world building and emotions and friends being disaster families. Hope you enjoy
> 
> \- Air

 

The problem is that names hold weight. Lance knows that much. When he was younger, he thought that nothing could sound as terrifying as his full name, yelled from across the house with the threat of imminent consequence. However, having his horizons broadened— stretched practically into infinity— has given him enough distance that he assumed his name, like everything else in space, had started weighing a little less. After all, he’s started answering to Paladin as much as he does Lance.

It just goes to show that Lance has no clue what to expect at any given time, and pretending otherwise can only ever lead to horrendous misunderstandings. Like an ambassador thinking something _incredibly inaccurate_ about his relationship with Keith.

“Hold up,” Lance says. “So, let me get this straight: when Ga’alusians get their version of married, they all swap names? How does— isn’t that confusing? And wouldn’t it be more confusing the more Ga’alusians there are involved? Like, I’m pretty sure the paperwork would get _intense_.”

“It’s not all the Ga’alusians,” Coran corrects. “The S’russ alone place an extraordinary degree of cultural emphasis on passing on legacies through names. It’s an extremely high honor that Ambassador Scimi asked you if her child could carry on yours! Or it would be, if they were actually named after you.” Coran strokes his moustache in thought, completely cavalier after dumping an ocean’s worth of salt on an open wound. “As for this whole ‘swapping’ business, I’d say you’re oversimplifying it more than a touch.”

“I _like_ over simple!” Lance insists, not really caring whether or not that makes sense.

“Lance,” Allura snaps, looking like she’s either got a headache, or she’s ready to cause one. “This is a delicate situation; we cannot afford to oversimplify any of it if we want to navigate through this mess.”

“Then can someone actually explain it to us already?” Keith asks, breaking in. Lance is torn between the need to corner the market on ‘confused outrage’, and the reality of being stuck in an emotional free-for-all. At the very least, outsourcing some of it means he can focus his energy on other things: for example, being _more_ confused and _more_ outraged.

Coran and Allura share a look, and Coran steps forward. “Well, I suppose if we’re going to start anywhere, then it might as well be with the situation at hand.” He clears his throat.

“Giving your name to a partner carries a different connotation than passing it on to an infant. The exchange of names between partners is a show of trust; it indicates that you trust the other person to guard it as if it were... well, not your life, much more than that. Your legacy, really! To the S’russ, it’s a gift of the self. All the history that comes with it, all the history that will be made with it. After the exchange, no matter what happens, someone’s going to be spreading your name across the planet— maybe even across the galaxy— and there’s always going to be a connection between who you are, and what they’ve done.”

Allura kneads at her forehead. “Considering the likelihood that she has already publicized the name of the paladin that rescued her, compounded by the likelihood that she announced the intended name of her child two ticks after you gave her permission, revealing her error could have... unfortunate ramifications.”

“Calamitous, really,” Coran adds.

“In what ways?” Shiro asks, his forehead crumpled in thought.

“Ambassador Scimi is already facing incredible political pressure. If she faced accusations of disrespecting both the Paladins of Voltron and her own cultural traditions, there might be enough internal conflict to affect her standing. The Kanture could pressure the Intercavern Alliance to hold a vote of no confidence.” Which is, based on her expression, A Bad Thing. “The power vacuum Lance had prevented would pop right into place.”

“Vacuums don’t technically pop,” Pidge starts, but any explanation she’s about to launch into fizzles out when she sees the look on everyone’s faces (excluding Hunk’s). She crosses her arms. “Well, they don’t.”

Pedantry aside, this is all sounding… delicate. “Wasn’t the original shindig supposed to be about stability and progress? Why does everything sound about as stable as a house of cards! I don’t want to be cause of an international incident! Inter… intercavernal?” Lance shapes his mouth around the improvised adjective, temporarily derailed from his original point. Did he have a point? It probably came across.

At least, Allura takes something from it. “That is reassuring,” She says, looking a little less tense for the first time since the entire mess started. “I don’t want to imagine the effort it would take to convince you, otherwise.”

What?

“What do you mean, ‘convince me’? Convince me of what?” Lance asks. He has a bad feeling about this. He has many bad feelings about this. If feelings could have feelings, they’d all be bad.

“Well,” Allura hedges, “it seems to me the easiest way to ensure that this visit progresses smoothly is to just… not correct Ambassador Scimi’s assumptions.”

Lance can’t even begin to cobble together a coherent sentence, much less a retort that could come anywhere close to exactly what he needs to express. So he just yells. Just a loud, wordless burst. To be honest, he can’t think of a better way to convey his grievances.

“Are you done?” Keith asks, uncovering his ears.

“Am I done? Am I done!? No! I am not done! I’m nowhere near done!” Lance jabs a finger in Keith’s direction. “And why are _you_ so calm about this? Shouldn’t you be freaking out too!?”

“Look, I’m about as happy with this as you are—”

“Excuse me!?”

“—but it’s not that big a deal.”

“ _You’re_ unhappy? You hit the jackpot when it comes to fake-husbands! _I’m_ the one who has to be married to a—” Lance glares at him, searching for the words to properly convey how inadequate the length of the stick he’s been given, but all that comes out is “—a _Keith!”_

“What does that even _mean?"_

“You’d know if you weren’t so you! But no, you’re being all Keith-y about everything and going—” Lance, wiping all expression from his face, points both hands with open palms and a set to his shoulders. “I’m Keith, and I’m mad even though I’ve got a kid named after me _and_ I get to pretend I made the hottest guy in the galaxy swoon into my arms,” he mimics, making his voice deadpan and uncomfortably deep.

“I don’t sound like that!” Keith snaps. “And you were just yelling at me for being calm! If you’re going to be mad about an emotion, pick one and stick with it!”

“No! I’ve reached a special place in my heart where I am completely, justifiably angry about every emotion! I’m just!” There’s no word that comes anywhere close to exactly what Lance is just, so instead, he just lets a general sound of acute frustration. “How did this even happen? Where did I go wrong in my life?”

“I mean, Keith’s right.” Pidge, once considered a dear friend, reveals her true allegiances. Again.  “It can’t be that much of a big deal. Apparently you guys were friendly enough that the ambassador had no problem thinking you were space-married. Just do what you guys usually do, except on purpose,” she says, shrugging.

“That shouldn’t be a problem.” Keith, bolstered by this support, crosses his arms with an aggressive sort of nonchalance. He is just _so determined_ not to be affected by this, isn’t he. “It’s not like we have to kiss in front of them,” he continues. Then his eyes immediately widen, and his arms drop to his sides. “Do we? We don’t, right?”

“No!” Lance exclaims, too frazzled to even enjoy Keith finally joining him in freakout land. “This isn’t— this isn’t _high school_ , Keith! Real couples don’t make out twenty-four seven, okay!” How on earth (off earth?) is a fake relationship supposed to work if the guy Lance is stuck with has all the romantic aptitude of a wet sponge? “I don’t even think the Ga’alusians _can_ kiss with those snouts.”

Which is a train of thought he didn’t know he didn’t want until he was, unfortunately, on board.

“They probably can’t.” Judging from Pidge’s face, her brain went in the exact same direction.

“ _Please_ do not kiss in front of the Ga’alusians,” Allura says. “It would look to them as if someone were trying to get to food that’s already been digested. That is… not a pretty, nor an affectionate, picture.”

“So, like birds?” Hunk asks. “Or wolves?” They scrunch up their face. “I guess I can see it. Huh. What about holding hands, then? They’ve got those; that might be something that’s a little more universal. I mean, it’s a thing people do, right? So just do that.”

Lance is absolutely certain no one in the room is actually qualified to dispense relationship advice. “No one holds hands every second of their life,” he insists, “it’s not like my parents hold hands all day. They just stand near each other! Y’know, like _normal people.”_

“But they _do_ hold hands,” Hunk says. And don’t they seem pleased with themselves! As if! That was the point!

“I’m not saying they don’t! What I’m _saying_ is that there’s stuff in between! Or, like, the hand holding’s in between other stuff! It’s like the commercial breaks between normal human behavior!”

Pidge snorts. “Knowing your standards for normal human behavior, I’m skeptical.” Which, okay, she can insult Lance— with light to moderate retaliation— but there’s a line! To be drawn!

“I’ll have you know that my parents are super in love, and are the best example of a couple, ever!” Then his brain catches up with his mouth. “Oh man, it’s… super weird to think of them as, like, an actual couple.” Parents are just supposed to be a strange, static, monolithic entity, not… regular people in love. “Thanks a lot, Pidge. Now I’m gonna be weirded out for the rest of my life.”

“Lance, why don’t we take a step back and think this through,” Shiro says. It’s not really a request, considering he’s using his Instructor-Turned-Team-Leader Voice. Which goes back to normal, if inhumanly reasonable, when he suggests, “How about we build off of Pidge’s first suggestion? You guys can just act like friends, and we’ll figure it out as we go along. As long as you look like you like each other, it should be fine.”

“And it’s not like they know how humans act. Like, ever. Considering we’ve the only ones they’ve seen.” Hunk pauses, looking around the table. “We _are_ the only humans around here, right? There wouldn’t be some mysterious human space colony floating around. Would there?”

“Well, anything’s possible,” Coran says. “But also, incredibly unlikely! I’m sure someone would’ve mentioned it if you weren’t the first humans they’ve seen, if they can even tell us  bipedals apart. They probably know as much about human courtship as you do about Ga’alusian customs!”

“Yeah, so like, what is affectionate for Ga’alusians?” Hunk asks. “I mean, they probably don’t kiss, but there’s got to be something that’s like… their version of it.”

“Well—”

“Oh no.” Allura, interrupting Coran’s contribution to the alien smooch-equivalent speculation conference, puts a palm to her forehead. “Something just occurred to me.” She turns to Lance with lightning speed. “Lance, this is of the utmost importance. You must answer this question completely honestly.”

And wow, that’s never a good lead-in, but Lance swallows his apprehension and nods.

“Did you flirt with anyone the last time that we were on Ga’alus?”

Talk about anticlimactic. “Princess, is that really— oh.” Wait a second. “Right, yeah, that would not be good. That’d be bad. Uh. Let me think.” He searches through his memory, digging as far back as he can, and raises a finger. “No, actually I— Wait. Wait! Oh, no, we’re fine. I just thought about it. Didn’t actually… nah, we’re good.”

And that’s when realization strikes. It’s like a shard of sunlight through an overcast sky, a glimmer of gold in a sea of pyrite, a raincloud in the desert— the barest hint of a promise that he’s on the precipice of something potentially magnificent.

“Does this mean,” he says, careful and intent, “that I can just do whatever the heck I want as long as I _say_ it’s romantic?” Now this, _this_ changes everything.

“Within reason,” Allura snaps, trying to ground him, but it’s too late— Lance has taken off, he’s flying high, and there’s nothing that can bring him down because oh man, the _possibilities_.

“Keith!” He shouts. “Buddy! Do you _know_ what this _means?_ ”

The look on Keith’s face is enough to communicate that he is completely, alarmingly unaware of the gift they’ve been given, and that’s just unacceptable.

“We basically get to prank an entire planet! I mean, sure, delicate political whatever’s at stake, but oh _man_ think of what we can _do_ ,” Lance grabs Keith by the shoulders, just about to vibrate out of his skin with excitement. “There’s no frame of reference! High-fives? Fist-bumps? Everything’s fair game! We could do whatever we want! Do you think they’d buy punching each other in the face as a gesture of human affection?”

“What you are going to do,” Allura enunciates, deliberate and slow the same way magma crawls down rock, “is act reasonable. You are going to to be reasonable, and polite, and when Ambassador Scimi _names her child,_ you will be appropriately appreciative of this huge honor.”

Oh.

Right.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to cause a scene.” Yep. Tantrum time over. Even though the whole thing really, _really_ stinks. It’s enough to take all the joy out of the situation, but if there’s any time to act like a Mature Adult, it’s when one wrong move means political upheaval and premeditated catastrophe. “I want nothing but the best for Keith junior. I won’t be the reason their mom gets impeached.”

Allura nods, and he must’ve said something right, because she doesn’t actually look worried. Or, not _that_ worried. Just a normal amount of healthy alarm about a situation in which most anything could go wrong. “We’ll be landing within the next rotation, so for now we should just take the time to prepare.” And with that, breakfast is over and everyone’s free to do whatever. Lance is absolutely ready to use this opportunity to get some quality moping out of the way before he has to grin and bear it.

He’s about to head to the observation deck to do just that when he feels a hand clasp his forearm. He turns, and it’s Keith. Of course it is.

“Uh,” Keith starts, which is always promising. “Hey,” he continues. His way with words will never cease to astound.

“Hey,” Lance prompts, because he may be frustrated but he’s not a complete asshole.

“Kinda sucks.” Which, yeah, there was just an entire breakfast meeting about the whole situation sucking, but then he clarifies, “About the name thing, I mean. It sucks. I’m not the one who deserves it. Sorry.”

And Lance is a complete asshole. “Ugh! Don’t be,” he says. “I’m pissed, but I can’t be pissed at you, which is the _worst part_ of this.”

Keith looks lost. “Why can’t you be pissed at me?”

“Because it’s not actually your fault!” If anything, it’s Lance’s fault for not properly introducing himself. Not that there was a lot of opportunity during the whole ‘making sure nobody dies’ thing. “This is just one huge misunderstanding that _should’ve_ been easy to clear up, but nope, suddenly it’s ‘diplomacy’ this and ‘power vacuum’ that, so Keith junior has to stay Keith junior, and I have to lie to people who trust me enough to name their kid after me, because otherwise, _politics_.”

“Oh,” Keith says, his brows knitting together, and for a second, Lance thinks that maybe he understands. And then, because he’s Keith, he ruins it. “So this isn’t about the name thing?”

“Oh my god.” Lance presses his face into his hands. “I guess! Kind of, but not really, okay? There are a lot of things for me to have emotions about, alright?” He lifts his hands away from his face, only to see Keith opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish about to present its first accredited research paper.

Finally, Keith gets whatever he has to say out. “I’m shit with emotions.”

No kidding.

“But… even though it’s not really my fault, I feel kind of responsible, and we’re kind of in this together. So.” Keith crosses his arms. “I’m here if you need to… get things out? I probably won’t have great feedback, about eighty percent of my advice is probably just, ‘calm down,’ but yeah. I can listen.”

A heart-to-heart with his rival sounds ridiculous enough, but somehow, Keith takes a ridiculous situation and just makes it more _Keith_. Lance couldn’t stop the laughter, even if he tried.

Keith bristles. “What? What!”

“ _You’re_ telling me to calm down?”

“Fuck off.”

“Way to prove my point there, buddy,” Lance says, slinging his arm around Keith’s shoulder. He uses his other hand to poke his cheek. “You’d better not be a bad influence on Junior.”

“Junior?” Realization dawns on Keith within a few seconds. “Wow. Really?”

“What?”

“We just went over how important names are, and here you are, already throwing out nicknames.” Despite his words, Keith’s huffing out a laugh. It’s not quite the bent-over-with-laughter Hunk’s gotten from him, but it feels like some sort of victory.

“Well! Maybe that’s the human thing to do.” Or… maybe it _could be_ the human thing to do.

“Seems like more of a Lance thing to do,” Keith says. He uncrosses his arms. “Alright, so… Good talk?”

Which sounds like a conversation closer if he’s ever heard one, so Lance releases Keith from the Arm-Sling of Good Natured Teasing and pats him on the back to send him on his way. Unfortunately, Keith is the reigning champion of never getting the memo when it comes to interpersonal interactions. Even if it’s his own.

Keith, instead of heading off to do whatever, lingers in what’s now some strange conversational limbo. “I’m gonna try to work some training in before we touch down,” he says, finally. “Want to train with me?”

“Eh, I’ll pass. It’s probably not a great idea to get sick of each other before we even land.” Plus, when else will he get the chance to mope before married life begins.

But Keith, as always, disrupts any and all of Lance’s carefully laid plans because he’s allergic to strategy and probably sprang fully formed from the aftermath of an impulsive decision. “It’s way too late to worry about that. Come on, I bet I can beat your record. You lasted, what, five minutes on level eight?”

Oh no, it took _weeks_ to get that time. Lance is _not_ losing his place on the leaderboard without a fight. Moping later, winning now. “Hope you had a light breakfast, because you’re going to eat those words!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [10:08:15 PM] Air: nice work stella  
> [10:08:30 PM] Air: Truly a Lance comeback  
> [10:08:43 PM] Stella: I am so ashamed


	3. Terms of Endearment (or More Accurately, Incitement)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which There is More Affectation than Affection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! We updated really quickly because both Stella and I have been waiting for ages to crank this one out, so we wrote it within like a day. Hope you enjoy!  
> \- Air
> 
> I can't believe us. Here we are. Again. Please enjoy this labor of love, which we poured our heart and soul into, my god these dramatic space kids use so many italics,  
> \- Stella

In the end, the most difficult part of debarkation is convincing the mice that Allura really, truly will be alright without them. She’ll be fine, she’s in bona-fide friendly territory, and hey! They’ve been left behind before! But it sure doesn’t feel like it with how fervently the mice protest. It takes a while, but eventually they’re are convinced that the _very important job_ of guarding the castle is a task that only they can accomplish.

Which is good, because. Don’t lizards… eat mice..? Sure, it’s alien-lizards, and they’re alien-mice, but... it just seems like a good problem to avoid.

By the time the team touches down planet-side, it must be some sort of midnight equivalent; whatever few Ga’alusians are wandering around look like they’re two ticks from an impromptu nap. If they weren’t three-foot tall armadillo-lizards, Lance could almost pretend he was back at the Garrison halfway through finals week. If he squints. And paints everything a specific, disgusting grey-khaki, like tea brewed by someone with only a theoretical knowledge of the process.

Despite her surroundings, Ambassador Scimi looks as energetic as ever. The way she bounds over to meet them is almost exhausting to look at— how long has she even been awake? Judging by what he knows about her, on a scale from Lance to Keith, she seems like a solid Shiro in terms of sleep habits. Except more voluntary. For a loose definition of ‘voluntary’. So that… might be concerning.

“Ambassador Scimi,” Allura greets, somewhat apologetically. “Thank you for receiving us; I know we must be intruding on some much-needed rest.”

“Oh, it was no problem,” she says, just as a Ga’alusian behind her decides right then that being vertical is simply too much to bear. Impromptu nap is a go. “I’ll have to be awake for a while longer, anyway.”

Yeah. Definitely concerning.

“As it is, my only regret is that you will have to wait to meet anyone else! As much as I’m sure you enjoy my company, it does get a bit tiresome to interact with the same face time and time again.” Ambassador Scimi ducks her head and chitters in what might be the alien equivalent of laughing at her own joke.

“Well, if that were true, I’m sure that the team would have gotten sick of each other a long time ago,” Shiro says, a partial reassurance wrapped in awkward small-talk.

“Well—”

Whatever Pidge has to say is cut short by a well-placed elbow, courtesy of Hunk.

“It’s different when you’re family,” Ambassador Scimi says, her tone matter-of-fact. Then, she turns towards Keith and Lance, which is… daunting. He’s had like five hours total to figure things out, and honestly, he needs closer to five years, but this is his life now and it’s about three seconds away from flashing before his eyes.

“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced!” Ambassador Scimi chitters again in what’s absolutely the alien equivalent of laughter, period. At least one of them is having fun.

While Lance is preoccupied with drafting his last will and testament in his head— hopefully his magical brain-link with Blue means there’s some way to pass it along after his imminent demise— Keith just launches right into it. As usual. “Um. Yes,” he says, obviously not knowing where he’s going with that _at all._ Lance can’t even enjoy the incoming trainwreck because whatever inevitable screw-up happens, that’s an extension of his own screw-up, and Allura will kill them both, but! Whatever! It’s fine! At least being dead means he won’t have to see a planet’s fragile political climate go up in flames due to his inability to introduce himself properly.

“I’m... the guy... that has his name..?” Keith finishes.

Scimi’s tail flicks, and then she makes a sound that the lions can’t translate. “Oh my goodness,” she says, and her voice is the slightest bit wobbly. “I’m so happy for you two,” she says. “I knew it was only a matter of time, but still, in the midst of all this—”

“Wait, hold the phone, what does that—! I mean,” Lance cuts himself off, forcing some kind of filter between his brain and his mouth. “How,” he tries again, drawing out the word with a careful deliberation, “did you know we were dating?” It’s not like there’s been much time to gossip about _anyone’s_ personal life, what with the _lasers_ and the _shooting_ and the _evil space imperialism!_ And even if, _somehow,_ the ambassador managed to snag a spare second for tea with Coran while everyone else was _fighting for their lives,_ where would _that_ idea even come from?

“Yeah,” Pidge interrupts, looking delighted in the worst ways possible, “what gave it away?” Behind her, Hunk comes down with a sudden and inexplicable coughing fit.

“Well, you weren’t exactly subtle.” Ambassador Scimi almost looks apologetic, until she ruins it with another bout of chittering. Which apparently serves as a cue for the entire team to just lose it. Everyone— aside from Keith, who’s his only ally in this situation, and isn’t _that_ just the cherry on top— has collectively decided to stop pretending they aren’t laughing their butts off. Everyone’s just! Having the time of their lives!

“They’re, uh,” Hunk manages to wheeze, “pretty obvious, aren’t they.”

Apparently goaded on by the reactions, the ambassador has no qualms adding fuel to the pyre of abject humiliation. “I only had the chance to interact with you for a short span of time, but, well…” The way her snout shifts seems coy, almost. It’d be really interesting to think through exactly how he’s reading body language he’s definitely not equipped to, if he wasn’t being burned alive. “You spent quite a bit of that time hanging off one another, or otherwise involved. I haven’t had a single conversation without one of you dragging the other into it!”

Keith has a look like he just remembered he left his stove on back in his desert conspiracy shack. “That was romantic?”

Now this is a distraction Lance can work with. And if he gets to expand on an idea that’s been rolling around in his head, well, that’s just icing on the cake. “Of course it is, honey,” he says, slinging an arm around his poor, confused, naive beau. “I can’t believe this, here I thought we were doing _such_ a good job keeping it on the down-low, but an _entire planet_ knows because you just couldn’t keep your hands off me. Way to go, snookums.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.” Keith, rolling his eyes, puts a tentative hand around Lance’s waist. “Darling,” he adds as an afterthought.

“Oh sweetie pie, whatever could you _possibly_ mean by that?”

Before they can get too far into the usual escalation of their petty squabbles, Scimi snuffles in what Lance thinks is the equivalent of clearing her throat. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I’m getting the… translation right. Some of these words, are they… alternate titles?”

_Bingo._

“Kind of, but not really,” he hedges, as if he has to think about it. “It’s not something anyone else would use. I guess you can think of it like...  names are super important to you guys, right? Well, Keith,” Lance says, gesturing to the victim in question, “accepts any name I call him because we’re just that close. Isn’t that right, my aggressive little firecracker?”

“Oh my god,” Pidge whispers. She actually looks kind of impressed, which is flattering as it is… somewhat alarming.

“Yes,” Keith grits out, looking at Lance with the horror of dawning realization. “That’s... certainly how humans work.”

“Oh!” Ambassador Scimi looks contemplative, somehow. Maybe it's the twitch of her snout. “What an interesting way of displaying affection! Thank you for sharing the background with me; I greatly appreciate the insight.”

Holy crow, it worked. Lance has the power to call Keith whatever the heck he wants, no consequence. There’s so much power in his hands. And any retaliation that could conceivably be made is, honestly, _the best part._

“Well… sweetie,” Keith says, the endearment juxtaposed harsh against his tone, which is _absolutely hilarious,_ “as important as this cultural exchange is, I’m sure Ambassador Scimi has important things to do.”

Ambassador Scimi lets out a long, wordless yell, followed by an emphatic sound that’s probably a swear. Those never get translated. “I am so sorry,” she says at last. “Both for my language, and for having to abbreviate such a pleasant conversation. Pressure was exerted from certain parties to set the schedule so that a policy could come to a vote without achieving quorum.”

“Well! That doesn’t sound consistent with standard legal practices,” Coran interjects, affront on her behalf.

Ambassador Scimi’s tail flicks in agitation. “Oh, it’s not.” Her voice, tired and bitter, hardly sounds like her own. “But what use is there for bureaucracy when everything is being rebuilt, and each problem requires immediate address? Sometimes it works in our favor. Sometimes it does not. But that’s politics.” She looks at Allura. “You understand.”

Then, Ambassador Scimi shakes her head, sending her snout swinging. “Well! Enough of that! We have more important matters to address before I leave you. Such as sending you off to rest!”

Lance’s brain stalls. He’s been trying not to think about this part. “So…” He begins casually. “Where is rest happening?”

“Lance,” Allura says in her ‘I’m enough of a diplomat not to murder you in public’ voice, “as I’ve said _multiple times,_ the Ga’alusians have _graciously_ offered us accommodations, prepared for us _personally_ by Ambassador Scimi.”

“Right.” There was a whole thing, wasn’t there, about ‘diplomacy’ and ‘showing trust,’ all sorts of political nuance and nonsense. That’s… not promising. “Are we gonna have to, like, share a bed, or pod, or nest, or sleeping whatever?”

“Yes,” Ambassador Scimi confirms, and Lance can feel the world around him crumble into dust because Keith wears shoes to bed. Shoes. He probably kicks, too. Lance is going to have to deal with disgusting cave shoes in his space, and moreover, he’s going to wake up with a knife in his stomach because he rolled over in his sleep and smacked straight into Keith’s security knife, and then he’ll be covered in blood and shoe germs because Keith wears his goshdarn shoes to bed.

“It may be a tight fit with all seven of you, but we made sure to get the biggest den possible,” Ambassador Scimi continues. “After all, if we’re pulling you from your castle, we should at least try to match such accommodations!”

What.

"We… well, we assumed that since last time you all slept aboard your ship, humans pack bond. That you all sleep together in order to ensure safety and camaraderie.” Ambassador Scimi begins to look anxious, her tail and snout twitching. “Is… Is that not the case?”

“Ambassador Scimi,” Lance says, almost reverent, “that is _exactly_ the case.”

Ambassador Scimi looks about as blatantly relieved as her literally alien body language is capable of communicating. “Oh, good! Yes, that is excellent. Very good. Alright! In that case, I’ll show you to your accommodations.”

 

* * *

 

As damp, humid, and cramped as the rest of the caverns are, the one reserved for the paladins is dry and spacious. It also makes Ambassador Scimi visibly uncomfortable, enough that she practically flees as soon as she’s assured that the team is settled.

“I am so glad we don’t have to spend this entire trip drowning in our own sweat. Do you think they noticed us dripping everywhere? It’s not like there weren’t more important things going on. Like explosions. And giant, yellow snails leaking acid all over the place.” Lance flops onto what’s a purple stretch of… moss, probably? In any case, it’s spongy and comfortable, and its shape is uniform enough that it’s probably been engineered for the sole purpose of being introduced to his backside. Or, well, someone’s backside at least. How do the Ga’alusians sit down with their tails? They probably… curl up, actually. Like cats. That makes more sense.

“Nope,” Hunk starts, dragging Lance out of his speculation, “nuh-uh, you’re not getting out that easily. I may never be able to talk about anything else because holy _crow._ I was like, ‘she can’t possibly say what I think she’s about to say,’ and then she _did.”_ There really isn’t any need for a play-by-play, considering _everyone was there,_ but Hunk, bless their soul, gives one anyway. What a pal. “I’m pretty sure we all died, and none of us could make fun of you, so now it’s time for that to happen.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Lance lies. “Nothing happened that you could possibly tease me about. I’m unteasable.”

“Alright, _snookums.”_ However, being a true friend, they don’t actually get on his case with the whole ‘an alien totally thought you were dating Keith’ thing. Yet. Hopefully never. Probably sooner than that.

“I’d say that I can’t believe you actually did that, except I _absolutely_ can,” Shiro says, chuckling until Keith glares at him, betrayal written across his face. He coughs. “I mean, Lance, that was inappropriately taking advantage of the situation. Shame on you.”

“Hey! Cutesy nicknames are totally a romantic human thing! I was playing the part!”

“Yeah, if we lived in an eighties sitcom,” Keith retorts. “Seriously, where did you get those?”

“I’m just glad he doesn’t have to use any of his terrible pickup lines.” Pidge shudders. “I don’t even want to think about what he’d come up with.”

“Now that you mention it—”

“No,” Keith says immediately.

“I didn’t even say anything!”

“You really don’t have to.”

“He has a point,” Hunk says, once again disregarding Lance in lieu of supporting his rival. How much treachery can one friendship take. “Forget miles; whenever someone’s like, ‘hey, here’s an inch,’ you take off in Blue, and we find you fifty light years away, handcuffed to a tree.”

“Low blow, buddy.”

“This is, if I’m honest, not our highest priority. We had a problem, and now it’s dealt with.” Allura looks at Lance, sizing him up. “It certainly was a good way to establish your relationship and separate it from how you interact with the rest of us.”

“Well.” Lance, almost too taken aback to say anything else, manages to cobble together, “Thanks, Princess. Always happy to help.”

“Which means it’s better to exercise some restraint and, for once in your life, do things in moderation. If you mess this up by taking a few practical jokes a little too far, the consequences will be dire.” Which, to Lance, sounds a lot like ‘I’ll kill you myself’.

 _“Thank_ you, Princess.” Keith looks far too vindicated for someone who wouldn’t know moderation if it punched him in the face.

“As for you, Keith,” Allura says, which, ha! “Try to loosen up a little bit. You look like you're being forced to eat your own tongue.”

“Doesn't he!?” Lance, raising his arms emphatically, gets hit with a moss pillow to the face.

“I’m trying,” Keith says, crossing his now pillowless arms, but the sound gets weird at the end. Keith scowls and rubs at his throat. “The humidity’s just messing with me.”

“Alright, Desert Man. If you say so.”

Allura sighs out something under her breath, before turning to the rest of the team. “Now that that’s settled, it’s probably best that we retire for the night. We have a long day tomorrow.”

“Dibs on the bathroom!” Lance shouts, before he’s immediately tripped by Pidge.

“You’ll take hours. I’m not going to be kept from ten seconds of changing because you have to mess with your face mask.”

“Um, _excuse you,_ I left that at the castle!” Mostly because he didn’t know what the bathroom situation actually was, but still. “If anything, you’ll take forever just to spite me! Look, I already called dibs, plus I’m _older_ than you—”

“If you think pulling rank helps you here, you’d be wrong.”

“Excuse me!?”

“I’m an arm,” Pidge says, gesturing at her own. “Arm beats leg.”

“Yeah, right! What kind of sense does that make!”

“Arms are closer to the head,” she explains with infuriating composure, as if her argument has any kind of logical basis. “The head is the leader. Therefore, arms are basically the second-in-command.”

“Alright, I can accept going after Shiro, but I’m not going after you and I’m _definitely_ not going after Keith.”

“I don’t actually care,” Keith says. Which makes sense, considering he’s probably just planning on sleeping in his clothes. “Besides, it’s a ridiculous argument. Arms are more important. How else are you going to use any weapons?”

“Yeah, but losing an arm, whatever! Try forming Voltron with only one leg! See where that gets you! Back me up here, Hunk.”

“Okay, so minus the limb-superiority thing going on, I’m kind of with Keith on this one. I don’t really care.” So that’s Hunk out of the running. Except they continue, “But I’m also kind of with Pidge. Whatever the order is, I definitely don’t want to be after you.”

“Hunk!”

“Look dude, even without your skincare regimen stuff, you always take forever. _Always.”_

“Well! Fine! I guess it’s up to Shiro to decide, then!”

“I guess it is.” Pidge is way too confident in her victory for someone who literally does not have a leg to stand on. They both turn to Shiro, expectant.

“Uh,” Shiro says, putting up his hands. “I’m not sure I can make this call. Everyone’s pretty vital.”

“Well yeah,” Lance says, “but which of us is the _most_ vital?”

“You’re not seriously going to say Lance outranks me, are you?”

“Yes, he is, because it’s true! I’m older, I’m actually a pilot, and I was the first one to get my lion!”

“And how’s that going to help you when something in your ship explodes?”

“Oh, I’m sure—”

“Paladins! Show some respect!” After getting the room silent, Coran clears his throat. “Obviously,” he says, “the princess outranks you all.”

“Yes.” Allura, already closing the door, gives everyone a jaunty little wave. “I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [9/3/2016 6:26:13 PM] Stella: I have  
> [9/3/2016 6:26:19 PM] Stella: made a visual aid  
> [9/3/2016 6:26:25 PM] Air: oh ym god  
> 


	4. Like Lethonomia, but Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Convergent Evolution is More Universal Than First Thought

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AIR CAN'T BE STOPPED THEY SLAMMED OUT THE MAJORITY OF THIS CHAPTER IN LESS THAN A DAY WHAT A WILD HECKIN RIDE. Also. I've Been Waiting For This,  
> -Stella
> 
> Stella's super good at outlining things which is why I'm able to pump shit out. I do well with a Solid Chapter Outline. Stella is also good at "Air we need to rework this dialogue so that we don't have the whole 'all Balmerans sound the same' going on. I have also been waiting for this so!!!!! Enjoy  
> \- Air

Lance’s first thought when he wakes up to the feeling of something jabbing him repeatedly in the stomach is, “I knew I was going to get stabbed.” He doesn’t have time for a second thought because his sleep mask gets yanked, and suddenly there’s an irate Pidge standing over him. “I’ve been trying to wake you up for ages,” she says. “Everyone else has been up for at least an hour.”

“You only started trying three seconds ago,” Hunk corrects, yawning. “Or was the whole, ‘the longer he’s asleep, the longer he’s quiet,’ thing part of my dream? I’m thinking not, but that’s mostly because you guys usually aren’t in them. One time you did help me take down this spider-vampire thing, though.”

“Sweet.” That’s a lot more plot-heavy than Lance’s dreams tend to be. “Who landed the final blow?”

“Well, Pidge and I put together this flamethrower thing, but for some reason dream-me was like, whoa, that’s way different from my bayard, so—”

“Hate to interrupt,” Shiro says, and he does seem genuinely apologetic. He’d probably want to know who beat the spider, too, if it didn’t likely involve three hours of exposition. “The reason Pidge woke you up is that it’s almost time to meet up with Ambassador Scimi and her wife.”

Lance is standing within a second. “The bathroom’s mine!” He yells.

“Yeah, because everyone else’s been awake long enough to use it already.” Keith, missing the entire point, fails to rain on anybody’s parade.

“What’s that? I can’t hear you over the sound of me monopolizing this bathroom!”

Lance’s name echoes about five times before he manages to close the door, each repetition ringing with a different degree of resignation, but he’s okay with that.

 

* * *

 

The team spends more time than they’d like asking for directions, but they do, eventually, find the private meeting burrow that Ambassador Scimi reserved for— well, not really breakfast so much as whatever explanation Allura had offered for their morning briefings.

The ambassador’s wife, Aeg, seems to be enjoying it, at least. “Maybe if _we_ had something like this, certain people wouldn’t do things like, oh, I don’t know,” she says, her snout twitching, “forget to eat for three days.”

Hunk looks at Ambassador Scimi, alarmed. “Aren’t your days, like, really long?” They look about three seconds away from passing their breakfast, Lance’s, and maybe Keith’s over to Scimi to make up the deficit.

“She’s exaggerating,” Ambassador Scimi protests. “I _can_ take care of myself.”

“You can,” Aeg agrees, “now, whether or not you do… well, that’s another story.”

Ambassador Scimi’s snout lifts, then drops as she begins to chitter. “Oh, fine. You win.”

“Don’t I always?” Aeg asks, chittering as well. She places a gentle hand over her wife’s, fond but firm. “I do want you to take care of yourself, you know.”

“I know,” Ambassador Scimi replies, her voice soft.

“How’s the best ambassador on the planet supposed to do her job if she’s half-asleep?”

“Aeg!”

Lance feels embarrassed in the same way he was when he accidentally stopped for dinner at the same restaurant as his sister and her date. It’s a weird mix of secondhand affection and a visceral need to be anywhere else. So, he does what he does best and launches into a sudden change of subject.

“So! Where’s—” Not Junior; he can’t call them Junior to their parents, “—Keith-to-be staying? Do they have, like, a babysitter?”

Aeg looks at him for a long moment, then makes a sound that’s incredibly close to the usual chitter. It’s more high-pitched than usual, and he can’t really tell if that’s good or bad. “They’re at home. Our daughter’s watching them for us.”

Their daughter would be… Schass? Probably? If he remembers right. He turns to (subtly) ask Keith whether or not she was the one who helped punch out that one Galra with the cannon, only for disaster to strike. It’s significantly harder to lose balance when sitting on a square of spongy moss than it is sitting in a chair, but Lance prides himself in always finding a way to do the impossible. Even if it means making a complete fool out of himself. One second, he’s having a great time being vertical, and the next, he’s not.

Except, he doesn’t fall flat on his back.

“Got you,” Keith says, torn between amusement and exasperation as he uses a steadying arm to save Lance from his own ineptitude, which is! Terrible! Keith isn’t allowed to use the sappy marriage thing to his advantage! That’s not how this works!

“Whoops,” Lance shoots back, turning it up to eleven, “looks like I’m falling for you.” It’s what he considers a solid turn-around, even if he can see Pidge making a face in the corner. And Shiro cradling his face in his hand. But that’s completely irrelevant to the situation.

“Don’t make me drop you,” Keith warns.

“Aw, you wouldn’t.”

“Sure about that?”

“Nah. You’ve always got my back.” He pushes a bit, very nearly overbalancing the both of them before he settles back in his seat.

Now it’s Ambassador Scimi and Aeg’s turn to look embarrassed.

Aeg’s tail flicks as she glances between Lance and Keith. “Well, aren’t you two affectionate!” Her chittering is lower pitched now. “Reminds me of when I first met Scimi.” Her tongue flicks out in curiosity. “How did you two meet?”

“How we met?” Lance huffs out a laugh. “That’s a boring story. How we fell in love, now _that’s_ worth telling.”

“I wouldn’t call a rescue mission _boring—”_

“Hah, wrong. That’s not how we met.” It’s obvious Keith’s just trying to cut off any improvised embellishments Lance could possibly add to their relationship, but Lance is fine with conceding that point if it means proving Keith wrong and clearing up some history. “We met in school.”

“We didn’t,” Keith protests, which only strengthens Lance’s resolve.

“Shush, hun, it’s story time.” Lance lightly pats his head like he’s pressing a snooze button, which would be incredibly useful if it were actually a thing. “Now the school we went to? Super competitive. At least, some programs are. If you just want to be up in the air, it’s easy enough to camp out as a cargo pilot, but fighter pilots? Only the top kids from each class get into that program. And Keith, he was… the best. The best of the best.”

The table is silent, each member of team Voltron staring in various degrees of shock. It’s hilarious, actually. If he knew a compliment to Keith was all it took to shut everyone up, he might’ve _almost_ considered using that to his advantage. Meanwhile, Aeg is projecting the alien equivalent of watching a soap opera: two parts vicarious embarrassment, one part rapt attention.

“He was _incredible,”_ Lance continues, “even in simulations you could tell he had a knack for flying, nobody even came _close_ to pulling off the stuff he could to.”

“Lance would never shut up about it,” Hunk supplies, and there goes that advantage. “Like, ever. Every day after class it was Keith this, Keith that, ‘did you _see_ what he _did,_ where did he even _learn_ how to _do_ that’, just on and on. Pidge, you are so lucky you never had to deal with—”

“As I was _saying,”_ Lance interrupts, because that sure is a lot of useless information nobody needs to know, “for the longest time I did everything I could to beat him for the top spot— we were competing for the same same program, and being a fighter pilot’s been my dream for ages, so y’know, it was bound to happen anyway. Lance versus Keith, the showdown of the century!” It’s all too easy to remember the sleepless nights, the cramming sessions, doing everything he could just to keep up, clawing his way past other names on the ranks. “Even when I—” well, lost “— didn’t make it in the first time around, I kept thinking, as long as I keep at it, as long as I can show them what I’m made of, they’ll take notice. Everyone will! But, uh...” Lance stumbles. There’s no easy way to say, ‘Keith got screwed up by grief-slash-conspiracies and I got in on a technicality,’ so he sums it up with, “things got complicated.”

“Lance, I...” What he _is,_ is looking like he’s on the precipice of some unfortunate realization, and nope, that’s not part of the plan. Lance doesn’t need that nonsense right now.

“But,” he says, effectively slamming the conversational breaks on that potential disaster, “that's all in the past! Anyway, we pilot several robot cats that turn into a bigger robot made of cats, and now we’re married. Life sure is funny. Isn't that right, pookie?”

Keith looks at him for a long moment, then closes his mouth. “Yeah,” he says, finally, “It really is.”

“It sounds as if you’ve been through a lot.” Aeg’s gross understatement is coupled with a pat on the shoulder. “I’m curious, though— if that’s how Lance met Keith, how exactly did Keith meet Lance?”

“Oh man.” Hunk, if they weren't already, is now solidly settled into their first-class seat on a flight to nostalgia land. “That’s a story we can all tell. Or, most of us, anyway. The humans.”

“I was out for most of it,” Shiro says, a rueful edge to his tone, “but the rescue mission mentioned earlier was for me.”

“And the rescue team would’ve been a lot smaller if these two,” Pidge gestures to her Garrison team, “weren’t snooping around while I was doing some snooping of my own.”

“You guys _do_ realize this is supposed to be Keith’s story to tell, right?” Lance, for once, is the one to get everybody back on track, and boy is that a weird feeling. But hey, he’s kind of curious how things looked from Keith’s end.

“There’s… not much else to tell.” He shrugs. “It was a rescue mission. There were explosions. Lance yelled, a lot, and so did everyone else. Except Shiro.”

Even by Keith’s standards, it’s a pretty sparse explanation.

“Oh come on, sourpuss, you can do better than that!” Sure, Lance is a tough act to follow, but there’s gotta be _something_. He rests his chin on his fist, the universal prompt for some juicy details. “What color were my eyes? What was I wearing? How did I take your breath away?”

There’s the slightest quirk to his lips as he says, “Blue. Clothes. You didn’t.”

Lance shakes his head, heaving the most dramatic sigh his lungs could possibly handle. “See what I have to work with?”

“I could say the same about you,” and at Lance’s expectant grin, he tacks on a belated, “darling.”

“You’re killing me, babe.”

“So,” Pidge interrupts, “is that the end of the story, or are you going to spend the rest of breakfast flirting? I’m not sure just how much cultural exchange the ambassador can take.”

Ambassador Scimi, upon address, waves an arm in what’s apparently the universal sign for ‘don’t worry about it’. “Oh no,” she confirms, “enjoying such interactions is a necessity in my line of business.”

Which is pretty obviously not what Pidge meant, and Lance knows when to leave her in peace. “ _Alright,_ if a little affection bothers you _that much_ we’ll focus on food instead of on each other.”

“About fucking time," she mutters.

Okay, forget peace. “Pidge! What kind of language is that!?”

“English, not that it matters.” Pidge drags a hand down her face, looking tired beyond her (very few) years. “How can someone who’s such a slouch be such a stick-in-the-mud.”

“There’s a time and a place! And right now, we’re literally having breakfast with an ambassador!” An ambassador who’s had to apologize for her own language, but _that’s no excuse._

“So? It’s not like there’s any kids around.”

“You _are_ a—”

“I dare you to finish that sentence.” Pidge, narrowing her eyes, looks about as threatening as wet owl. With a taser.

“Wow!” Hunk exclaims, clapping their hands together. “You know what I’d rather talk about? Literally anything else! Hey, Lance, remember how I threw up in Blue the first time you flew her? I would literally rather talk about that then hear you and Pidge yell at each other right now.”

If Lance is good at anything, it’s spotting an escape route. He might not always take them, but he can recognize them. And judging by how uncomfortable Aeg looks, he’s better off taking this one. “Oh man, I wish I’d gotten a picture of your face,” Lance says, food once again forgotten. “Keith’s too.”

Keith doesn’t dignify that with a response, but Hunk lets out a scoff. “Yeah, sure, let’s just make a scrapbook of every time I hurl, Lance. Great idea.” The sarcasm is slightly marred by their obvious relief.

“Oh?” Allura, distracted from her attempt to glare a telepathic connection with Pidge into existence, turns to the rest of the table. “I wasn’t aware that humans also kept visual logs.”

At this, Ambassador Scimi perks up. “We have those as well!”

Now that's an unexpected point of cross-cultural connections. “No kidding?”

“We’d never, not about that,” Aeg confirms, taking the question at face value. “Learning from the past is what keeps us from making the same mistakes. Just sweeping them out the den shows a lack of foresight, and anyone consciously going out of the way to do so is a,” untranslatable sound, “who can—” She cuts herself off, a tirade barely started. “Well. That's beside the point.”

There’s definitely a story behind that tangent, and it doesn't sound like a fun one. “Okay, so scrapbooks confirmed. What about, like, photos on their own? Is there a difference between official photographs, and say, pictures you take of yourself?”

“There is on Altea, at least,” Coran states. “Usually, pictures taken by those closer to you are considered to hold more sentimental value, and no one’s quite as close to you as yourself! Well, unless you happen to be inhabiting a different body at the time. Reminds me of when I was only—”

“I was kind of asking Aeg.” A little abrupt, but it’s better to cut him off before he’s hours into some trip down memory lane.

“Right.” Coran looking disappointed, sits back in his moss-chair. “Of course.”

“Maybe later you can explain to Lance and Pidge in _full detail_ , while they're cleaning the pods.” Allura is absolutely punishing them for their earlier faux-pas. This is what he gets for trying to be a good influence. “As for now, I’m sure we would all love to hear about what part visual records play for you,” she finishes, addressing Ambassador Scimi and her wife.

“I think I’ll pass this off to Aeg,” Ambassador Scimi says. “She works as an archivist, actually. She puts everyone else to shame!”

“Oh, stop,” she chitters. It’s a little more subdued, a brief spike of familiar warmth for what seems like a somber topic for her. “Unfortunately, many of our visual records were— no. Not unfortunately.” There’s a thump as Aeg’s tail lashes. “Deliberately. Many of our records were destroyed, hidden, or lost in the Galra occupation.” She glances at everyone gathered, and makes a low, untranslatable chirp. Another equivalent of a sigh, maybe? “You all know how it is. We have our work cut out for us trying to salvage what we can. The worst loss has been those of— ah, how to describe them...” Aeg cocks her head, sending her snout swinging. “Picture, if you will, a collection of portraits, each with a name written below. It’s something like a list, but to show each person at the… the core of them? Who they are. And these collections, ideally, are annual, tracking the progress of growth, showing how each individual has changed.”

It can’t be. There is no way that out of everything in the galaxy, the one universal item would be—

“You mean like a yearbook?” Pidge asks, an incredulous cant to the question. “We have those on Earth, too.”

“Oh, man, this is super cool!” Hunk says. “I love yearbooks. Everyone always writes really nice stuff in the back, and re-reading it always made me feel all soft and fuzzy inside.”

Aeg stills for a second, looking… blank, maybe. “Oh,” she says, and for a second, Lance feels like he should apologize. But then, Aeg’s projecting nothing less but open delight, and hell if Lance will ever understand why body language seems to translate alongside words, but thank goodness for that.

“I never expected— oh,” Aeg breathes again. She turns to her wife and chitters, low and drawn out. “It’s just as important to them,” she says, soft enough that Lance wonders if anyone else was meant to hear it. Somehow, he doesn’t think she’s just talking about the yearbook.

“I’m glad,” Ambassador Scimi responds, her voice just as low, and the slightest bit wobbly. Then they touch snouts, rubbing them together for a short moment. Lance looks away and sees Keith doing the same.

After a moment, Ambassador Scimi does what’s, for sure, the alien-equivalent of clearing her throat. “You mentioned writing in the back?”

“Oh, yeah!” Hunk, pulled back from their tactical inattention, tackles the topic with gusto. “Once we get our yearbooks, everyone basically writes something to be remembered by! Like an inside joke, or something they say a lot, or something about how they felt. It’s another way to be remembered.”

At that, Ambassador Scimi lights up. Not literally, she… _probably_ doesn't have bioluminescence going on, but anything's possible.

Aeg, at least, seems to recognize her look, moving her snout in amusement. “And what exactly are you plotting?”

Ambassador Scimi chitters. “I was just entertaining the idea of preserving this memory,” she says.

Great. Lance’s first selfie with aliens, and he didn’t even get to exfoliate. Still, who is he to refuse a picture of everyone being genuinely relaxed and happy together? Better than being covered in blood, or debris, or giant snail secretions.  

It takes way less time for Aeg and Ambassador Scimi to scrounge up the equivalent of a camera than Lance would expect. The real trial is getting Keith into the shot.

Keith has a look on his face like he just read a dessert recipe that called for a can of spam, even when the team cajoles him into posing with them. Finally, Lance takes it upon himself to intervene.

“Aw, c’mon, babe,” Lance pleads. “Smile? You look like you're at a funeral.”

Keith gives him a long look, then sighs. Finally, he gives the camera one of those smiles that barely qualify, like a happy cat, all half-shuttered eyes and no mouth.

Lance snorts, shaking his head. Good enough. Of course, that’s when the picture’s taken because nothing ever goes right, ever, but that just figures.

“Now we sign it,” proclaims Ambassador Scimi. She flips the projection of the image hovering in midair so the blank plane of its back faces them all, which is great, because as long as he doesn’t see it he can pretend it’s flattering. She extends her hand, tracing an inscription into it and signing off with a flourish. Aeg follows suit.

“Just like a yearbook,” she says, satisfied. “Right?”

“Yeah,” Shiro confirms, stepping forward to sign it himself. “Exactly like a yearbook.”

 

* * *

 

Eventually, Ambassador Scimi announces that it’s time to gear up for a rousing day of politics, more politics, and shockingly, even more politics. She makes a tired sound. “I do apologize for filling your itinerary with so much diplomatic drudgery; as much as I love my job, I would much rather introduce you to the less formal aspects of our lives. However, in light of recent events, free time has been rather—”

“Nonexistent.”

“Aeg,” Ambassador Scimi sighs. She shakes her head, her tail twitching in turn. “As it is,” she says, addressing the team, “I fear it is either an inordinate amount of diplomacy, or abandoning you to expire of boredom.”

“Well,” Allura says, clasping her hands together, “I know which one I prefer. Lead the way, Ambassador Scimi.”

The team files out behind the ambassador, but Lance lingers behind.

“So,” Lance starts, pulling Keith aside before they make their way to more Politics, “I’m like eighty percent sure compliments are their version of PDA. At least, a part of it.” That and snout nuzzling, but that’s a bit... yeah. “Did you see how they were? They've got to be the alien-equivalent of like, high school sweethearts. At least we have something to go on now.”

“Compliments, huh? That’s going to be hard to keep up,” Keith deadpans, which, wow.

“Alright, I’m more mad about handing you the easiest comeback in the entire galaxy than I am about the actual comeback, but whatever. You giving up this early just means that I win.”

“Does everything have to be a competition with you?” Keith clears his throat. Or at least, makes some sort of sound. “Well, fine. Challenge accepted. Looking forward to what you have to say about me, _dearest.”_

“Likewise, _snugglebug_ ,” Lance responds, injecting as much vitriol as a word like ‘snugglebug’ can contain. Sure, he just cornered himself into complimenting Keith, but he’s not one to back down from a challenge, even if it’s one that’s been doubled back on himself.

And besides, Keith’s just as trapped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	5. ‘Ancient History’ is a Funny Term to use when Time is Relative

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Emotional Whiplash is a Competitive Sport

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so a lot of this chapter was actually done for a while, because air is just Ready To Go, but I dragged my heels a bit,, b/c I was,, Embarrassed,,,,  
> -Stella
> 
> a summary of this chapter:  
> i’m yelling. stella’s yelling. keith and lance are yelling.  
> however, ambassador scimi, for once, is not yelling  
> \- Air

Politics are boring.

Politics are excruciatingly, numbingly, outrageously boring.

It’s like a lecture from hell, all inaccessible academia and abstruse sounds that can’t _possibly_ be defined; Ambassador Scimi’s been discussing a proposed budget for what feels like the last ten centuries, something that’s no doubt imperative for a community something-or-other, but he’s _bored,_ and _breathing_ too loud nets him a handful of dirty looks from one side of the room.

The rest of the team is better off, but not by much. Pidge is disassembling and reassembling something, even though Lance is sure that she didn’t have anything to mess with before they sat down. The mystery’s solved when he sees Hunk slip her the world’s tiniest screwdriver. Apparently they’re quiet enough to avoid any scornful judgement, communicating through slight gestures and, quite frankly, hilarious expressions. If letting out a laugh wouldn’t potentially cause an intercavernal incident, Lance is sure he’d be having a much better time.

Shiro, the only one of them who’s survived being entrenched in academia for longer than a few years, manages a look of polite interest. Or he’s dissociating. It’s hard to tell with Shiro. Coran, though, he’s in his element; he’s been whispering a continuous commentary at an attentive Allura since this whole circus started, and man, by the look of the folks sitting around them, Lance kind of regrets sitting by his beau like a good fake-husband.

It’s a small comfort that Keith looks just as lost as Lance feels, but he’s pretty obviously checked out of even pretending to be interested. Instead, he’s staring into the distance, looking in dire need of a nap. Every so often he seems to be on the verge of nodding off, and Lance gives him a subtle poke to make sure he doesn't interrupt the politics by planting his face on the table. At the very least, Keith’s a good distraction.

Correction; as always, he’s a good distraction. There’s something about Keith that just draws focus, it doesn't take much to get swept up into whatever terrible life choice he’s made, is making, or will make. It just so happens all recent ones seem to involve Lance.

Compliments, huh. It isn’t that thinking of ways to compliment Keith is hard; it’s way, way too easy to twist his multitude of shortcomings into something that could, miraculously, be considered strengths. And there’s something embarrassing about sincere, candid praise, isn't there? Some vulnerability exposed, almost. At least, that’s what it feels like. It’s one thing to talk about the good ol’ glory days; it’s another to talk about something that, comparatively speaking, just happened.

No, there’s got to be a loophole… and actually, there’s one Lance has already used.

Sometimes, he really loves being the alien.

A recess is, eventually, announced, but there’s not even time for proper relief before politicians are swarming the team. Socialization is great! _Way_ better than sitting still and listening to arguments about municipal spending! Except! That’s all politicians can talk about, _apparently._

The ambassador on his other side has him trapped in a conversation about the costs of water damage, and Lance is on the cusp of doing something drastic to escape. And, in fact, he does.

“How rude of me!” Lance drags Keith closer by his chair at the first available opportunity, close enough to drape an arm around. “Have you met my husband, Keith?” He asks, desperate to change the topic.

Keith looks a cross between annoyed and relieved, no doubt extricated from a funding-related conversation of his own. The politician, on the other hand— their name starts with a ‘g’, he thinks— is straight-up delighted. “I have, actually! He helped evacuate my den when the caverns were flooding. I never had a chance to thank you for that,” they say, addressing Keith, who accepts their gratitude with his usual routine; a stiff nod, a look of alarm, and an air of someone who’d rather be shot at.

“Isn’t he great?” Lance, forcing a saccharine sincerity into his voice, leans into Keith for good measure. Out of spite. “He can even turn oxygen into carbon dioxide all by himself!”

By the ambassador’s look of admiration muddled by slight bewilderment, the periodic table is a bit too Earth to get a proper translation. So that’s any instance of egregious sincerity successfully circumvented. Score! And yet! Keith, instead of being appropriately appreciative of this incredible out handed to him on a silver platter, shoots Lance an incredulous look. Then, weirdly enough, he smiles.

“You know,” Keith says, not even looking at the politician, “I was only able to help as much as I did because of Lance’s strategy.”

Well. Apparently someone’s sick of following his lead.

“Don’t be silly, boobear.” It’s annoyingly easy to switch tracks to Keith’s pace, but fine, if that’s how he’s going to play it. “The plan only worked because I knew you’d be fast enough to get everyone out in time. He’s just so competent,” Lance adds as an aside to their audience.

Keith’s eyes narrow in challenge, then he turns to face the ambassador head-on. “I wouldn’t have gotten past the sentries if Lance hadn’t told me how to.” He rests his head on Lance’s shoulder, more of a half-aborted headbutt than anything approaching affectionate. “It’s really thanks to him there weren't more cave-ins.”

“Well, _I’d_ say taking out the cannon was the most important part of that.”

“Which I couldn’t have done without Schass. If Lance hadn’t convinced her to help us, who knows what could've happened. He’s just so good at figuring things out.” Keith curls stubbornly into him, shoving his terrible, unwashed hair practically into Lance’s face.

“I, ah” the ambassador stutters out, tail twitching and snout snuffling in a flustered sort of motion, “oh my, I do believe that’s Ambassador Strat calling for me!” Without even looking, they start edging away. “I’m terribly sorry to cut this short; I wish you all the best, and cannot thank you enough for all the lives you have saved. My congratulations to you both.” With that exit established, the ambassador immediately shuffles as quickly as possible in the closest equivalent to a power walk they can manage.

Lance and Keith wait until their escape is complete before indulging in quiet hysteria.

“I’m pretty sure we scared them away,” Lance whispers, almost wheezing with the effort it takes to get that much out. He practically has to eat his hand to muffle his snickering. “Man, look at them go!”

“I’m used to being grossed out by PDA, not committing it,” Keith observes, grinning. Actually, legitimately grinning. “It’s kind of fun on this end. Like a people-repellant.”

“Looks to me like we’ve got a way out of boring diplomacy nonsense.”

“Actually, yeah.” And maybe Keith’s really just that relieved to dodge any degree of socializing, because he bumps against Lance in a show of overt camaraderie. “You really are good at figuring stuff out.”

It’s enough to startle a laugh, a little too loud and a little too forced. “Man, you do realize you can drop the act, right? Save it for when there’s an audience.”

It takes a second, but Keith’s face falls at a meteoric velocity until it’s his usual flat expression. Straight back to the resting Keith face. “Why do you always do this?” He seethes, throwing the whole conversation into an atmospheric one-eighty.

“Do what?”

Keith ducks out from under his arm, eyes narrowed in a different kind of challenge. “I don’t know why I even bother; every time it looks like we’re making some progress—”

 _“Honey,”_ Lance breaks in through a fake grin, darting glances at the politicians around them, thankfully still absorbed in their own conversations, “whatever’s got you worked up— is now _really_ the time?”

“You’re just _so—”_ Whatever Lance is just so, it’s lost to Keith almost doubling over from a coughing fit, and suddenly he’s leaning in for support instead of in some belligerent facsimile of affection. “Fuck. Sorry,” Keith grits out, when he’s done hacking out a lung.

If conversational whiplash was a physical sensation, Lance is pretty sure he’d have a broken neck. “Hey, you alright?”

“Dandy,” Keith says, hoarse and flat.

“Wow. That’s convincing. Come on, what’s up buttercup?” Lance works an arm back around Keith, rubbing circles into his back. “Feeling under the weather?”

“Nothing’s up,” he insists, trying to pull away; he doesn't quite manage it before another bout of coughing.

“Alright. That’s obviously a lie, but sure.” Lance already knows what’s up, but just to confirm it, he moves to brush Keith’s bangs out of the way. Keith, in his usual brand of wholly unnecessary self-sabotage, jerks back.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m taking your temperature, you stubborn jerk,” Lance says, reaching out again. This time Keith lets him, though he doesn’t look happy about it. When Lance moves to press their foreheads together, he’s kind of surprised Keith doesn't end up breaking his nose.

“Okay, you’re definitely burning up,” Lance says, pulling away. He really should’ve noticed earlier; Keith has more color in his cheeks than Lance has ever seen. “Dude, take care of yourself for once in your life. Were you even going to tell us you were feeling bad, or were you going to run yourself into the ground?” A useless question. He’s talking to Keith. That’s exactly what he was planning to do.

“If you’re sick,” Lance spells out, excruciatingly simplifying what’s supposed to be _common sense,_ “you need to rest or you’ll get worse and die. Nobody wants you to get worse and die.”

And then the silence of the room hits him like a ton of bricks. “Uh,” he adds, “darling.”

“Is there really a risk of death?” One of the politicians asks, alarmed, and whoops, look like they’ve made a scene. Again.

“Oh, no,” he’s quick to assure, “no no no, no cause for alarm, I’m exaggerating. Sugarlips here isn't actually at death’s door—”

“Exactly,” Keith says. “I’m fine.”

“—but if he _insists_ on being _stubborn,_ then _someone’s_ gonna end up dead.”

“Paladins.”

And shoot, there’s Allura, ready to rain diplomatic judgment upon them all. She grabs him and Keith by the collar of their shirts, shooting a winning smile at the politicians before dragging them off to a more isolated corner of the room.

The second he’s released, Lance turns around, clapping his hands together. “Princess! Maybe you can talk some sense into him. Keith here is being a— well, he’s insisting that he’s not sick—”

“I’m _not_ —”

“—even though he can’t go _five seconds_ without coughing up enough phlegm to wax the entire castle!”

“Oh?” The crushing waves of disapproval vanish as Allura takes closer look at Keith. She probably wasn't expecting a legitimate reason for their bickering. “Now that you mention it, he does look rather peculiar.”

“What do _you_ know about humans?” Keith retorts. And thus, his fate is sealed. He should really know better by now.

“I suppose I have to trust Lance’s expertise on this matter,” she says, clipped with a civility that’s always alarming to hear. “Although if we need a second opinion, maybe I should get Shiro—”

“That—!” Keith clears his throat, trying to clear out the raspiness that’s currently broadcasting ‘look at this jerk who’s coming down with a chest cold’ on all available frequencies. “That’s not necessary.”

“Good.”

“Is everything alright?” And there’s Ambassador Scimi popping over, tail twitching in concern. The isolated corner is becoming less and less isolated with every second, bystanders being drawn by the gravitational pull of potential drama, and by the look on Keith’s face, his mood is inversely proportional to the amount of people checking up on him.

“Perfectly fine, ambassador.” Judging from Allura, ‘diplomacy’ is apparently another word for ‘lying with a smile. “Keith is just in need of some rest. Lance will be escorting him back to the den.”

“Wait, that’s—”

“Absolutely right!” Lance pivots on his heels, turning to address the rest of the ambassadors before Keith can cut in with anything else. “Sorry folks, really hate to dash like this, but I’ve got to make sure Hubby here actually rests instead of throwing himself off a cliff to prove he’s fine.”

“I _am_ fine,” Keith grits out.

“Sure you are, dear.” Lance smiles at the politicians, waving off their concern before waving his goodbyes. “It was great talking to you all, and hopefully Keith decides to be reasonable for once in his life and actually recovers in time for the ceremonies.”

They stare back at him for a brief moment before imitating his wave with a varying amount of arms, which is actually pretty hilarious. “Get well soon,” one of them calls out.

At least some things are universal.

 

* * *

 

It’s a long walk back to the den, made worse by Keith’s lack of enthusiasm, but they do eventually get there. However, the trip back proves to be the least of Lance’s worries.

“Why don’t you have a single pair of pajamas?” There’s just no end of inconveniences from Keith today. “You’re the worst sick person ever, it’s amazing you’re alive.”

“It’s not like pajamas help with anything,” Keith grouses. “It’s a waste of time changing in and out of them.”

“That’s what you _do_ with clothes.”

Keith just shrugs, as if that’s any kind of suitable response, and sits down on the moss pad. For a minute, Lance thinks he’s going to be adamantly Keith about everything and pretend Lance doesn’t exist for the next three hours. What actually happens is worse.

“Hey. About earlier—”

“No talking, Doctor’s orders.” There are way too many ‘earliers’ _that_ could be referencing, none of which Lance is eager to address. Instead he reaches over to pat Keith on the head, trying to see if pressing the snooze button will work a second time.

It doesn't. If anything, Keith looks more riled up. “How are we supposed to work together when you’re always slamming a barrier down the second you realize we’re actually getting along?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Speaking of, talking’s just going to mess up your throat, y’know.” Lance crosses his arms, trying to hit nonchalant and ramming straight into plaintive.

For someone so stoic ninety percent of the time, Keith can be comedically expressive when he wants to be. Or, it’d be comedic if Lance didn’t feel like the emotional atmosphere was thickening into soup. But for all his rapid cycling through several variations of ‘pissed off’, Keith only takes a moment to wrestle his eyebrows under control, dropping them from ‘obviously displeased’ to a more contemplative slant. “I didn’t know,” he says, eventually.

“Have you really never been sick—”

“No. I meant, how you felt about me.”

Boy, that is absolutely not how Lance would've phrased it.

“‘Felt,’ past tense.” An important emphasis to make, he thinks. Lance looks away, busying himself with digging through everyone’s stuff. Maybe Hunk has a set of spare PJs they wouldn't mind being contaminated. “It’s in the past, so let’s leave it there and not talk about it.”

“Is that why you keep insisting we’re not friends?”

Apparently, they’re going to talk about it.

“We’re not,” he says, a completely reasonable assertion, “and no. That’s— it was a while ago. It’s not like you were doing it on purpose. I’m over it.” He is. “Just…”

Lance lets his cheeks balloon out, releasing a deep breath, before trudging over to drop himself onto the moss-pallet-bed thing. If he has to have this conversation, he might as well be comfortable.

“Alright. So.” He takes a moment, searching for the right words to string together. “What do you think’s gonna happen when this is over?”

Keith blinks at him, and it’s kind of nice to be on the other end of conversational whiplash for once. “We’ll… go back to the ship? It’s not like there are any other plans—”

“No,” Lance interrupts, “no, I mean— after we’re done being ‘Paladins of Voltron’ and we’re back on Earth.”

There’s a flash of understanding across Keith’s face, but it’s almost immediately replaced with an uncomfortable hesitance. “Lance,” he says, careful in a way that doesn’t suit him at all, “we might not—”

“I’m going to stop you right there. We’re gonna make it back to Earth, and there’s _going_ to be an ‘after’. So.” He fixes Keith in place, staring right at him. “What happens?”

There’s a long moment where Keith doesn’t say anything. Then, tentatively, he answers with uncharacteristic deliberation. “If we end up back on Earth, I guess… we go back to our lives. Try to pick up where we left off. Find some way to keep going.”

“And where do we fit into your version of ‘after’?”

And the look on Keith’s face, blank and bewildered, confirms that he never really gave a second thought to the idea that maybe ending Zarkon wasn’t the end of everything; the abstraction of ‘after’ barely qualified as an afterthought for him, which is why Lance can’t—

Well. He can at least try to explain.

“Look,” he starts, leaning back. “Here and now, we’re a good team. And yeah, I might be slightly exaggerating every time I say I hate your guts. But… it’s a pretty intense situation. I mean, we kind of _have_ to get along to get anything done around here. Literally. Plus, space-Keith has a maximum of five humans, two aliens, and a handful of mice he can hang out with, not to mention all the space a single castle-ship can afford.” Compared to how vast the universe is, it’s pretty meager pickings. “Earth-Keith, he’s free to do whatever he wants. Go wherever he wants. He’s not shackled to the same people. And yeah, obviously you’d keep in touch with Shiro, you’d have to be heartless to ignore Hunk, and I’m sure Pidge can drag you into some more conspiracies to crack, but me?” Lance laughs, and he thinks he does a pretty good job of keeping the bitter edge of it to a minimum; like a plastic knife instead of a cleaver. “In this scenario someone always gets left behind, and I don’t want to be the one caught in another one-sided chase when everything’s calm enough for you to remember you don’t like me.”

“I _do_ like you!” There isn't even time to be properly mortified before Keith takes him by the shoulders, looking almost offended, except there's not nearly enough anger to it. “You’re terrible at keeping whatever distance you think we have, because I don’t hate you nearly as much as I should!”

“Wow,” Lance scoffs, clinging desperately to the single shred of normalcy that can be extracted from this absolutely baffling exchange. “Thanks. That means a lot, really.”

“No, listen. You’re the most annoying person I’ve ever met—”

“Oh Keith, you charmer.”

“—but you’re likeable even when you’re being annoying. Which is annoying! Especially when _you're_ the one going out of the way to get under my skin!”

“I don’t—”

“You do! All the time!” Keith gives Lance a solid shake, probably in lieu of punching him. “I can't get through a single day without you sticking your nose into my life, and you know what! That's fine! I'm okay with it, as long as you're not being a huge jerk! I’m not good at emotions, or relationships, or whatever, but by now I think I’ve dropped _more than enough_ hints that I like you as a person, and I’m going to keep liking you as a person even when we aren’t being blasted with lasers! And it’s a pain in the ass when _you’re_ the one going full-throttle on the friendship…” Keith trails off, his brow furrowing, “speeder—”

“Friendship speeder,” Lance echoes, unable to stop himself.

 _“Friendship speeder,”_ Keith confirms, a ridiculous amount of conviction for an equally ridiculous phrase, “and out of nowhere, you slam on the breaks! You're worried about one-sided bullshit? I feel like I’ve been chasing after you for ages!” Keith makes a frustrated sound, which spirals into more coughing, forcing him to let go; Lance is about to suggest they table this conversation until Keith can actually have it without dying, but Keith just keeps charging ahead. He never lets up. “It sucks,” he chokes out, “I don’t know how to make this any clearer, so, just…”

He reaches out again, the same hand on the same shoulder, except there’s a different strain to it. “Lance,” he says, “we’re _friends_.”

“We’re… friends,” Lance sounds out, testing the words.

“Yes. We’re friends.”

It’s spoken like a challenge; they’re held in a moment of sudden suspension, on the cusp of some turning point, and there’s a certainty, a clarity in Keith’s gaze he’s never noticed. Who knows how long it’s been there.

“Alright,” he says, taking the plunge. “We’re friends.”

“Finally.” Keith, looking too annoyed to be relieved, lets out a long-suffered sigh. “Took you long enough.”

“Holy crow, we’re _friends._ ”

“Yes! We’re friends!”

“Out of everything that’s happened, the magical flying lions, the ten thousand year war, the accidental space-marriage misunderstanding, this is, by far, the most unbelievable thing that’s ever happened to me in my entire life.” Before Keith has a smart remark for that, Lance pulls him in for a hug.

There’s a second of rigid surprise, but Keith falls into it easy enough. “Why are you like this,” he mutters, resting his head on Lance’s shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah. _So_ sorry you have to deal with who I am as a person.” It’s hard even for him to tell how much of it’s sarcastic and how much is sincere, but Lance tightens his grip for good measure. From the hum he gets in response, apology accepted. It’s a nice moment.

As nice as it is, it’s one he has to interrupt.

“You smell like sweat,” he says, because it’s true and he can't take it anymore. “Seriously, when was the last time you took a shower?”

“Are you kidding me? We haven’t even been on this planet for a whole day, _”_ Keith counters, pulling back just enough to glare at him. “This is a normal thing that happens.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s more of a ‘you’ thing that happens, everyone else is pretty good at keeping themselves clean.”

“Like you’ve been close enough to tell. How many people have you been throwing yourself at?”

“That’s not what—! Do you even _hear_ yourself sometimes!” This entire conversation has taken years of his life, he swears. “Keith, buddy, one of these days we need to have a long talk about phrasing.” But today is not that day, and Lance just continues with, “It’s okay to admit you’re gross.”

“I’ve been _sick.”_

“Okay, one, thanks for finally admitting it; two, all the more reason to keep yourself _clean;_ and three, _gross.”_ Lance makes the executive decision to drop his arms and end the sweaty hug once and for all. “You’d better not get me sick.”

It’s the fastest turnaround he’s ever had for regret, and honestly, he only has himself to blame; never say something like that to someone like Keith. Lance _knew_ this, so he’s not actually surprised when Keith tackles him, though he’s not prepared enough to do anything about it. “Don’t you dare!” Lance yells, trying to shove him off without accidentally punching a sick person in the face. “We just had a heart-to-heart, you can’t do this to me!”

Keith, in response, jabs an elbow into his ribs. “We wouldn’t need a heart-to-heart if you weren’t such a jerk!”

“ _Why_ _are you like this?”_ Lance wails. “Get your germy mitts off me! I’m too young to die!”

Neither of them realize they’re at the edge of the moss-pad until there’s a dizzying lack of surface, and down they go. It’s not a far height to fall, but disorienting nonetheless— especially since Lance is the one that hits the ground first. His arms instinctively curl around Keith in an unexpected sequel of their gross, sweaty hug as they’re thrown into a state of forced calm. There’s an absence of reaction, time taken to regain their bearings, until Keith starts shaking. Before Lance can check on him, he bursts into laughter, and Lance is so startled by the sound he can’t help but join him.

“I can’t believe this,” Keith wheezes, pushing himself up on his elbows. “You’ll throw yourself at a bomb, but a cold, that’s too much. You’re ridiculous.”

“Is this how you treat your friends?” Lance manages, though he can’t quite get it deadpan enough to approach any parody of scathing.

“You’re my friend, aren’t you?”

Lance can’t help but laugh harder at that. “What was I thinking,” he says, grabbing Keith’s face so he can properly stretch his cheeks. “You’re awful. You’re the worst. I’ve made a horrible mistake.”

“I’ll cough on you, I swear I will.”

“You know what? Do it. Make my day. I’ve been carting you around for the past hour; my immune system’s probably kicking your cold’s butt.”

Keith leans in, probably to make good on his threat, which is when the door slides open and Lance is suddenly aware of exactly how this might look. He jolts up, which sends his head crashing into Keith’s chin.

“Hi!” He yells. “Hey,” he tries again, achieving a much more reasonable volume. “You— you’re back! You guys are back.”

“Ow,” Keith says, from where he’s landed.

“Uh.” Hunk’s at the front, and unfortunately, they’re doing nothing to block the other pairs of eyes peering over their shoulders. “Yes. We’re back.” They glance between where Lance is sitting, ramrod straight, and where Keith is splayed out on the ground. “Were— are you two—?”

“Fine! Yes! We’re fine, everything’s fine.” Lance jumps to his feet and ushers everyone in, if only to have something to do. “How were the politics!”

For one awful, excruciating second, there’s a long moment of silent conversation and mutual eyeballing between everybody else standing at the door. There's a full spectrum of eyebrow movement and the occasional head-jerk before they all finally seem to come to a mutual decision.

“Well, as soon as you left,” Hunk starts, carefully navigating the room full of elephant, “things got really weird, in like a thinly veiled hostility way, which is, by the way, my least favorite flavor of weirdness.”

“Some of the politicians tried to say that Keith got sick because the S’russ were mistreating us,” Shiro explains. “We asked what they meant by that, and they started—”

“Spewing bullshit.”

“Pidge.”

“While Pidge’s choice of words lack a certain diplomacy, she’s right.” Allura, now that he’s paying attention, looks absolutely steamed; if someone put a kettle on her, it might just start boiling. “‘Absolutely shameful,’ they say, as if Ambassador Scimi hasn’t done her best to accommodate us! Then they have the nerve to insinuate that they would have done a better job, as if they’re not being utterly transparent!”

Despite all the information being thrown around, Lance still feels like he’s missing a lot of context; from the looks of it, Keith is too. “Uh, still kind of lost here— who said this?”

“Kanturian ambassador,” Pidge supplies, finally. “He and Allura didn’t exactly get along.”

Hunk nods, making a face at what’s apparently a gross understatement. “He basically said that since we got the driest den, it was obvious that we’d get sick. Despite, you know, us needing it to be dry. Because our skin’s not exactly as—”

“Moist?” Lance suggests, earning dirty looks from his teammates.

“Permeable,” Hunk completes, closing their eyes in exasperation. “Plus, y’know, the spores and stuff everywhere else. Also, personal preference. I mean, I’m fine with it usually, but— don’t know if you’ve noticed— it gets really hot and clammy in the tunnels. Like a lot. And I know Keith’s not a big fan of _any_ humidity—”

“I lived in the desert.”

“Believe us. They know that now,” Shiro says, rubbing his nose.

“I was perfectly civil.” Allura folds her arms, her tone level in a way that means Lance missed out on the verbal evisceration of the century. “However, that _ambassador,”_ she says, injecting the title with as much disdain as possible, “wouldn’t know civility if it was shoved under his snout!”

Speaking of ambassadors,“Where’s Ambassador Scimi?” Lance asks. She didn’t seem the type to set her guests loose, not if she could help it.

“Well,” Shiro starts, the word drawn to an uncertain timbre, “she still has a few policies to go over. She thought it might be better if we took a break from politics for a bit.”

Which means that Lance really missed out on the show of the century. Holy crow. “Did Coran stay behind?”

“Of course he did.” Pidge says, setting up a makeshift workstation she couldn’t possibly have brought with her. “He loves this kind of stuff. I helped him sort through legal archives once, and I think he almost started crying.”

Keith raises an eyebrow. “So when can we expect him back? A year? Two years?”

“He’ll be back sooner than that.” After some thought, Allura amends her answer with, “Probably.”

Which, considering Team Voltron’s proclivity towards dramatic timing, should probably have been enough of a cue for Lance to stop blocking the entryway, but it’s not, and Lance almost falls backwards as it slides open.

“Paladins! I’ve— oh, hello, Lance!” Coran looks inquisitively at him. “That’s quite the odd position, there! Are you trying out new stretching exercises?”

“Yes, Coran. That’s exactly what I’m doing,” Lance says, right arm outstretched behind him and hand flat against the wall of the den. “How did you know?”

“Well, it bears a remarkable similarity to— no, that’s not the issue at hand.” Coran shakes his head, closing the door behind him. “We can discuss stretching techniques another time. After you all left, I took liberty to investigate the tensions between the S’russ and the Kanture; after all, it wouldn’t do for us to just blunder in willy-nilly! If we’re going to blunder, we should do it with a sense of purpose.” Coran beams, pleased with his statement, but it’s not long before he sobers to the original topic. “Unfortunately, it seems that the situation is rather… well.”

“Rather what, Coran?” Allura asks, eyes narrowing.

Coran folds his hands together. “It’s just as we first thought. The Kanture do want to capitalize on any and all opportunity for leverage; however, rather than the theory we’d proposed—”

“What theory?” Pidge glances up from what’s starting to look like the beginnings of a mainframe. “Have you been talking about this without us?”

“You’re still untrained in diplomacy,” Allura explains. “We were merely discussing possibilities. There’s no reason to let speculation distract you from the task at hand.”

“Uh, yeah, except that never works when ‘speculation’ turns out to be ‘super important information’.” Hunk shrugs, a casual motion completely at odds with their expression. “Sure, let’s go with ignorance is bliss. I mean, it worked for me, except it was kind of terrible and didn’t work at all.”

Coran shares a glance with Allura, and after some sort of silent communication, barrels ahead. “The princess and I had discussed the possibility that the Kanture had faced marginalization in the past, which would lead them to desire status that would prevent such a thing from happening again. This theory proved false.” He sighs. “Instead, it seems that they were in such a position of power that they fear retribution for their actions.”

“Wait, hold up,” Lance says. “What actions?”

“The Kanture were quite the force to be reckoned with not too long ago! Well, give or take a few generations. According to any of the Kanturians, it started out harmlessly enough. A few territory disagreements here, a few poorly worded trade agreements there.” Coran’s expression twists. “Considering what I’ve heard tell of, however, I doubt it was so benign. Especially considering the end result.”

“I don’t think we’re going to like the end result,” Lance mutters, mostly to himself.

“Over the course of— well, the closest equivalent I can think of is a decade— almost all of the tunnels and caverns where the S’russ lived were… in one way or another, obtained by Kanture. To afford living within these newly privatized caverns, many of the S’russ had to work for private Kanturian businesses, a development that was rather easy to take advantage of. By many accounts it was. Taken advantage of, that is.”

“Of course, the Galra brought an end to all that, and throughout their occupation, everyone faced the same trials; however, the efforts to rebuild have brought old pains back to the light. Or they would, if the Kanture would acknowledge them. Much of the documentation regarding their “business” practices vanished alongside the records lost to Galra occupation.” Coran coughs. “Or so the Kanture say. The ones that even know about these dealings.”

Shiro is practically gaping at Coran. “How did you find out all of this? We’ve only been gone for…” He makes a face. Lance can relate. Time is hard.

“Well, a lot can happen when you’re a natural gossip! Besides, I’m not above a little espionage.” Coran tugs at his mustache with a certain measure of confidence. “It turns out that before we dipped our hands in, today’s agenda was going to consist of debates regarding Ambassador Scimi’s recent petition for reparations, but nobody wanted to address such a polarized subject while guests were in attendance. Apparently, many of the Kanturian senators are against any acknowledgement of Kanturian treatment of the S’russ, and land disputes are a very controversial subject.”

“That’s bullshit,” comes sharp and simultaneous from Keith and Pidge.

“They can’t just cover up the truth!” She insists. “Those jerks always want to keep everything under wraps so it’s more convenient for them!”

“They’ll do whatever it takes to protect themselves,” he agrees, “no matter who they screw over in the process. No matter how little they actually have to do, like… like—” Before he can gather his thoughts, Keith is wracked by another round of coughing.

“Offer some basic decency?” Hunk supplies, patting him on the back. “Acknowledge any inflicted wrongs? At least a ‘hey, we sure messed up with that, let’s make sure it doesn’t happen again’?”

“Yeah,” Keith rasps, sharing a look with them. “Yeah. That.”

Hunk sinks onto the moss-bed. “I keep hoping that we’ll find at least one planet where imperialism isn’t a thing. At all. Not even aggressive, real-estate imperialism. Like, I get that with the Galra it’s hard to escape, but there was already too much of it on Earth, and now there’s too much in space. I mean, any is too much. But still.” Hunk sighs. “Okay. Enough whining. What are we gonna do about this?”

“We’ll need a plan. One that doesn’t involve punching out an ambassador,” Lance clarifies, giving Keith a pointed look.

“Why not?”

“It’s a delicate political situation.” An important fact to stress, but not a welcome one; Allura takes the tone of someone describing a fungal disease.

“Still not seeing a reason not to punch out an ambassador.”

“Me neither,” Pidge agrees.

“If I may,” Coran says, clearing his throat. “I might have an idea. There is a notable lack of punching, but… well.” He crosses his arms. “While I was poking around, I did find a few indications that the Kanture were, well, lying.”

“No shit,” Keith bites out.

Allura, however, seems to take a lot more from that than anyone else does. “You mean—”

“Exactly!”

“This could— yes, we could work with this. Coran, you’re brilliant!”

“Uh, either of you want to fill the rest of us in?” Lance asks, raising a hand.

“As outsiders, our understanding is irrelevant,” Allura says. “We can’t upset the delicate political balance.”

She cuts off the incoming objections with a wave of her hand. “What we _can_ do, however,” she continues, her eyes flashing, “is a little espionage.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [9/10/2016 7:16:09 PM] Stella: Friendship speeder  
> [9/10/2016 7:18:19 PM] Air: Friendship speeder


	6. The Worst Part About Being Sick is the Friends You've Made Along the Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Current Events are Discussed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter kicked our asses and I don't know why??? we reorganized it and rewrote it a bunch of times before we were satisfied. Hope you enjoy the fruits of our efforts  
> \- Air
> 
> seven person dialogue hell is always such a doozy to navigate.  
> \- Stella

“The layout of the tunnels has definitely changed since we were last here. Understandable, considering the reconstruction efforts, but it makes our job harder. If I remember right, at least two of the tunnels that Lance and Keith flooded no longer exist.” Shiro taps a line on the impromptu map he drew on Pidge’s tablet, frowning when the action creates a new blotch of color. He taps at the screen until both the line and the offending smudge have disappeared, then clears his throat.

“Anyway,” he continues sheepishly, straightening up. “Have any of you noticed significant changes in infrastructure?” He waits, as if he’s completely ready to believe any one of them is capable of remembering the layout of a tunnel system they saw _once_ weeks ago. An impossible expectation to match, but Shiro just believes in them that much, apparently. On one hand, it’s great that he has that much confidence in his team. On the other hand, it’s absolutely, positively, egregiously misplaced.

“I still have no clue how you can even tell the tunnels apart,” Lance admits. “The rest of us had to smear the walls with technicolor goop.”

“It’s a reactive agent!” Coran responds, insulted. “Not a ‘goop’!”

“If it feels like goop and acts like goop, it’s goop.”

“I go through the trouble of creating a litmus test specific to Ga’alusian scent markers and this is what it gets me. My work, diminished as... goop.”

“Well,” Lance says, unable to help himself, “you know how it is. You win some, you ooze some.”

Lance’s name rings out with various degrees of exasperation, interrupted only by a short burst of laughter.

“Really, Keith?” Pidge groans, “if you thought _that_ was funny, you’re more sick than I thought.”

“Nah.” Hunk, shaking their head, lays a solemn hand on Keith’s shoulders. “His sense of humor’s a lot easier to hit than you’d think.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Keith asks, a weird shade of aggressively uncertain. He’s probably trying to decide whether or not he’s supposed to take offence.

“It’s not a bad thing! I’m just saying the banana peel gag might be a classic, but it’s really not _that—”_

“Team?” Shiro prods, redirecting them back to the matter at hand. “We’ll have to figure out where to go. Any suggestions?”

Pidge cocks her head. “We can’t exactly ask anyone, so—”

“Why can’t we?” Lance interrupts. “We’re guests, right? We can wave it off as wanting to know our way around.”

“Actually… yeah, I guess we aren’t technically in enemy territory. But how do we bring it up without blowing our cover? When people ask questions, someone’s bound to take notice.” Pidge tugs a hand through her hair, a sour look glancing across her face. “Being discreet with the kind of questions we’re asking? That’s not going to be easy.”

“From what we’ve heard,” Shiro says, “it sounds like whatever files they’re hiding would have to be in a secure location. I wouldn’t be surprised if direct access was limited to Kanturian senators, or whoever else needs the information. All we need is a copy of it.”

Allura taps a finger to her mouth in thought. “The ambassadors in charge of land disputes are our most likely candidates; that leaves Ambassadors Urt, Vass, and Musbran. They’d need to have the records in order to know which topics to avoid, which contracts to keep hidden, and what counter arguments to make. As long as we can get to their personal access ports, assuming we can decrypt the data—”

“Of course we can,” Pidge says, crossing her arms.

Allura inclines her head. “Then we can access the relevant files. If I remember right, these tunnels were destroyed; the Kanturian ambassadors were moved to somewhere around this area.” She circles an enclave of tunnels around the top right of the map.

Shiro frowns in thought. “So, what we need to do is find exactly where the ambassadors’ offices are, then figure out which one’s our best bet to avoid getting caught.”

Allura heaves out a sigh. “I think I know a way to do that.” Whatever plan she has, she does _not_ look happy about it. “I’m sure, if I were to… _apologize_ to Ambassador Vass, I would need to know where to contact him. And, given the opportunity, I’m sure he would be all too eager to give me a ‘history’ lesson from his perspective. It would take some time for him to explain his…” Allura grimaces, “views.”

“So, we’re baiting him with the opportunity to bullshit for as long as he wants,” Pidge drawls with a sympathetic amusement. “Smart plan. It’s going to suck for you, though.”

Coran clears his throat. “Perhaps it would be a good idea for me to come along as well. I’m sure I’d have much to contribute to the discussion.”

“You can say outright that you want to minimize the likelihood of me punching the ambassador, Coran.”

“A good one-two verbal counter can be as good as a fist if used correctly,” Coran says, pointedly not contradicting her statement.

“Depends on the situation,” Keith grumbles.

Shiro elbows him into silence, though it’s more of a light nudge than anything. “Alright, that’s settled— the only problem is, I don’t think I’ve seen any access ports since we’ve gone underground.” His brow furrows. “I don’t think I’ve seen any tech, actually.”

Hunk lights up, looking ready to save the day. Or at least, answer some questions. “Well actually, I might know what’s going on there! Not might, I do. I definitely know what’s going on.” They take in a breath, which means everyone’s in for a doozy of a reveal. “While you guys were listening to politics, I saw a section of the floor that didn’t fit into the rest quite right. Lo and behold, it popped out pretty easily, and I found a bunch of internal wiring. Turns out—” Hunk pauses for dramatic effect, just the right length for some well-timed jazz hands, “— there’s no tech to see because it’s all in the foundations! If you mess with the walls in here you’ll find a buttload of stuff, probably.”

Wait a second, “Is _that_ what you and Pidge were messing with during the policy discussion? _Hunk!”_ Lance gapes at the mass of tech Pidge is fiddling with, scandalized by its dubious origins. “What exactly did you take?!”

“Listen, I only took the non-essentials,” Hunk soothes, “they were _clearly_ due for replacing. Most of them barely worked.”

“Hunk! You’re not supposed to steal from your hosts!”

“It’s fine; it’s not stealing if it’s garbage!”

“Are you hearing yourself!?”

“I mean,” Pidge interrupts, “they’re right. It’s not like anybody’s going to miss any of it.”

“It’s like taking something from the dump,” Keith offers, lending his support to Team Dubious Morals and Non-Existent Boundaries.

“That’s _illegal!”_

“Uh, no.” Hunk crosses their arms with an absolutely worrying certainty. “It varies by municipal dump. You just have to go for the ones that are legal. And you know, free. ‘Cause some of them charge you like forty bucks if you don’t have proof that you live in the area, and like, listen, I did not drive all the way to the next town just to—”

“Why do you know this!?”

Pidge rolls her eyes. “Calm down Lance, you’re not exactly a model citizen yourself.”

“Having a good time and getting arrested are _mutually exclusive!_ Getting chewed out by Iverson is nothing compared to calling my mom _from prison!”_

“What exactly did— no, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.” Shiro makes the executive decision to drop it, and Lance is saved from having to recount the much-beloved-but-still-mortifying tales of his youth. “Alright, if that’s where the tech is, then what about private terminals?”

“Why don’t we find out?” Hunk asks, walking over to their bags.

Pidge stares on in dawning comprehension as Hunk rifles through their stuff, then laughs. “Oh my god, did you really bring—”

“Of course they did,” Lance responds, warm with an odd mixture of pride, affection, and mild exasperation.

“Here it is,” Hunk says, surfacing with what would look like a clunky, thick calculator, if calculators were yellow. “I wasn’t sure we’d need it, and I was almost like, wait, the voltage detector’s enough, right? We’re on a diplomatic mission! But then my anxiety went, ‘okay, but have you considered that literally everything we ever do goes terribly and we end up getting dragged into disasters,’ and I went, ‘you know what, you’re right, despite being terrible and awful ninety-nine point nine percent of the time!’ So I brought this multimeter—” Hunk waves it in the air— “ and like half my toolkit. You’re welcome.”

“Nice work, Hunk,” Keith says, shooting them a thumbs up.

Lance tries to surreptitiously grab the multimeter while Hunk’s looking at everyone else, but they swat away his hand.

“No offense, but I saw what you did to the comms system the other week.”

“We all did,” Pidge agrees with a hollow sort of edge. She didn’t get much sleep trying to fix it. Which Lance does feel bad about, but also:

“I don’t break everything I touch,” he protests.

“Nah.” Hunk pats him on the shoulder. “Just electronics. Don’t take it personally, Pidge is practically the only person I can trust with this kind of stuff.”

“Which is why she’s handling data extraction.” Shiro says, once again wrangling them back on track. “As soon as we determine where, exactly, the data is being extracted from.”

“Right,” Hunk says, sweeping their multimeter over the nearest wall. “Give me like five minutes; I’ll look for voltage and current fluctuations around the room and figure out where our personal terminal is. Once we figure out what they look like, we’ll know where to plug in when we’re at the office.”

Pidge trails after them, craning her head to see the readings. “We should start by the corners and work our way around so that we have a solid idea of where the fluctuations are. Relative to each other, I mean. Does anyone have a pencil? Wait, scratch that, I think I do.” Pidge fumbles around in her pockets for a second before resurfacing triumphantly. “I hope graphite shows up on these walls. Come on, Hunk.”

“Sounds great,” Shiro says as the nerd squad drifts off to fiddle with their tech, completely ignoring him. “What do you think, Allura? Coran?”

“It’s as solid a plan as we’re likely to get,” Allura responds. After a moment, she tacks on, “good work,” which is always nice to hear, when she remembers to say it.

“I believe we’d all benefit from one last full rundown of the plan so far,” Coran says, stroking his moustache. ‘All’ in this case is most definitely a shorthand for ‘Lance’, but Shiro nods anyway.

“Hunk and Pidge are in charge of data extraction, while Allura and Coran distract Ambassador Vass. If this section,” he gestures at the circled area, carefully avoiding the screen, “is where the Kanturian ambassadors are holed up, it’s a pretty isolated system; there should be five potential routes to Ambassador Vass’ workspace from the main tunnels. We’ll have to do some recon, but I think we can narrow it to two if we cover these intersections.” He crosses out two of the branching lines. “While Hunk and Pidge bypass the security mechanism, we’ll stall whoever tries to go down that specific route until they’re in and out. I’ll take the closest one, Lance can take the farthest one.”

“What about me?” Keith asks, more challenge than question.

“You’re sick. What you need to do is rest.”

“Not to mention,” Allura adds, “you may need to use the expeditor soon.”

In Lance’s opinion, it was a good, solid plan, right up until the end. “Woah, no way, are you kidding me? The only thing worse than being sick is being twice as sick in half the time.”

“Actually,” Coran starts in a way that usually spells ‘bad news’ in giant neon letters, “he’ll probably have to take a stronger dose than you did.”

“That’s even worse! Look, it’s not like he’s got to be battle-ready by tomorrow or anything—”

“The ceremony, the _entire reason_ we’re here in the first place, is barely a solar rotation away. I’d rather not run the risk of Keith coughing on a senator,” Allura says, as if Keith just _not going_ wasn’t an option. Although, knowing Keith, it probably isn’t. Can’t leave him alone for a second. “If he wants to recover by then, he needs the expeditor.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Of course it does. “Keith, buddy, you don’t know how terrible those things make you feel. Sure, just stick yourself with the needle, it’s fine, right up until you turn into a fountain of snot and regret.”

“I’d rather be sick for a day than a week,” he insists.

“Trust me, shoving a week’s worth of being sick into a single day isn’t much better.” But it looks like nothing he says is going to stick to Mr. Minimal Sense of Self-Preservation. “Whatever. It’s your mucus-covered bed to lie in. But I guess that’s settled, then.”

“No, it’s not,” Keith says, because nothing is ever easy with him. “Who am I stationed with?”

“Are you serious?” Lance asks, raising his arms for emphasis. “Keith, you’re stationed with the bed! It’s your sworn duty to lie in it and _sleep,_ right Shiro?”

“I’m with Lance on this one,” he agrees, like a responsible adult. “Between two people, we’ve got the tunnels covered.”

If Keith’s eyebrows got any closer, his face might swallow itself. “You’re kidding, right? I can handle _lookout duty.”_

“Sure you can, but you don’t need to. Besides,”  Lance scoffs, “What are you even going to say?” He makes his voice rough like sandpaper, suitably conveying the timbre of someone who doesn’t know how to take care of himself. “Oh, sorry you caught me; I was just wandering off into the tunnels to die!” He feigns a cough for good measure.

“That’s still not how I—” Whatever Keith’s point is, it’s interrupted by another bout of hacking. Sounds like all this talking is really taking a toll on him, made worse by the fact that he’s not even keeping himself hydrated. It’s unfortunate that there aren’t any oranges in space, or lemons, or citrus of any kind to keep everyone’s vitamin-C levels up to par. But there _is_ water, so Lance goes over to fill a glass up because if Keith isn’t going to take care of himself, _someone_ has to.

“How do you expect to be a good lookout if every five seconds you’re coughing so loud the entire _planet_ can hear you?” Lance asks, shoving the glass at Keith.

“That’s the point.” Keith downs the glass in practically one gulp. “If they find us, you can say I ran off because I didn’t want to be babied, and you were concerned and looking for me. That makes more sense than, ‘I went for a walk because my husband was cramping my style’.”

Why is it now, of all times, that Keith actually has a good point _for once._ “I don’t sound like that! I’ve never said ‘cramping my style’, ever!”

From the other side of the room, Hunk mutters something under their breath.

“Ever!” Lance insists.

“Sending me with Lance gives him a reason to be wandering around in the tunnels, and I can provide backup.” Keith looks at Allura. “It makes sense for me to be there. Besides, with the expeditor it’ll be much more convincing.”

“You can’t be seriously considering this,” Lance says, trying to appeal to common sense. Surely he can count on Allura, of all people, to see reason.

“He does have a point,” Allura says. Apparently he can’t count on her, of all people, to see reason. “I trust Keith to be a fair judge of his own abilities.”

“I hate to say it, but it gives you a lot more to work with.” Shiro, instead of sticking by Lance in the only line of defence against Keith’s terrible life choices, has apparently decided to hop onboard the Enabling Train that’s barreling straight towards where Keith’s tying himself to the tracks. “Look,” he explains at Lance’s betrayed expression, “The expeditor might feel bad, but it’s mostly after-effects. There’s only so long small talk can last, especially since you don’t really have enough of today’s policies to draw on.”

“Uh huh,” Lance says, “he’ll be fine up until he passes the quiznak out, right? Until he absolutely can’t go any further because he pushed himself to his limits _like he always does?”_

Keith’s response is, of course, to ignore all the entirely valid points Lance is bringing up. “I thought that being friends meant you were going to be less of a pain about everything,” he says, crossing his arms.

“Uh, newsflash! Establishing we’re friends doesn’t mean I’m going to start caring about you less!”

Keith levels a flat look. “This is you being concerned?”

“This is me being concerned!”

“I’m gonna have to second that,” Hunk says, raising their hand while walking back towards the group. “The caring about you thing, I mean. I know you can handle things even if you’re sick, and taking the expeditor means you technically won’t be sick, but you should at least bring another jacket or something, one that actually covers your whole torso. I have an extra shirt you could borrow, and I know Lance does too. Also, we found the terminal so we’re good to go on that front.”

“I don’t need it.”

“The terminal? Oh! Oh, you meant the jacket.” Hunk shakes their head. “No, you do, you really do— I mean, some of those tunnels get really drafty, and y’know, it’s hard to tell when it’s gonna cool down. I’m not saying you should go overboard because getting a heat stroke would probably make everything worse, but yeah.”

“I _really_ don’t need it,” Keith insists, looking vaguely uncomfortable.

Pidge pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Actually, while we’re discussing this, I think building a dehumidifier might help. At least, it’ll make it easier to—”

“I’m _saying_ I don’t need any of that,” Keith says, firm and unyielding, always looking to make life hard for himself. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“You might not need it, but it sure wouldn’t hurt to have. Besides, what are you going to do, stop me from building a dehumidifier?” Pidge raises an eyebrow. “Good luck with that.”

Keith shrugs off the concern. It just bounces off him, doesn’t stick at all. “I don’t need you treating me like I’m made of glass. I promise I’m really, _really_ okay.”

“We’re not treating you like you’re made glass, we’re treating you like you’re made of blood and guts. Y’know, like a _human.”_ Pidge makes a sound that even the most exasperated bull would be hard-pressed to match. “But fine. If it’ll bother you that much, I won’t build a dehumidifier for you.”

“Good,” Keith says, as if making life worse for himself is some sort of victory.

Which Lance can’t really let slide without getting a word in. Several, in fact. “Y’know, it’s less about how okay you think you are, and more about getting you to reach a not-terrible standard of ‘okay’.”

“I’ll be fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	7. If There’s an Upper Limit for Semi-Serious Conversations, the Daily Maximum is (Regrettably) Larger Than Anticipated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Espionage Becomes Synonymous with Sudden Emotional Transparency

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whenever I'm sick, my strategy is basically to eat ten oranges a day until I get better. It's not a good strategy. Please take care of yourselves like competent human beings.  
> -Stella
> 
> I, for one, build a fort out of tissue boxes, sprite, vapor rub, and soup. So much soup. I don't even like soup.  
> \- Air

“I’m fine,” Keith says, looking miserable. It’d almost be funny, if he wasn't such a pathetic sight. A shuddering, wheezing, dripping sight. The slightest drop in temperature is enough to set off a full-body shiver, it’s honestly a miracle he can breathe through all his periodic coughing fits, and Keith’s apparently the type of person whose eyes start watering as soon as his nose starts leaking, which is more than a little disconcerting. Lance is pretty sure he never wants to know what it’d take to reduce Keith to actual, legitimate tears.

“Uh huh. Absolutely fine,” Lance deadpans, passing over a moss-substitute-tissue-thing that pointedly goes unused. A useless gesture of stubborn defiance, considering the pile of snot-coated rags they’ve been steadily accumulating. Keith’s record is only four gross, wet-sounding snuffles before he resorts to actually blowing his nose, like any reasonable human being should when their sinus is clogged like the dickens. “You know what we could use right now? Space vapor rub. Good old menthol and petroleum.”

“I keep telling you, _I’m fine,”_ Keith insists, despite holding an unnatural stance that practically screams ‘You Would Not Believe How Hard I am Trying Not to Cough Right Now’. He looks like an angry rooster. An angry, dazed rooster that hasn’t slept in three weeks. “You’re all acting like I’m about to drop dead when I’m _fine_.”

Lance sighs, checking the tunnels to his right, left, and front for signs of movement before turning back to Keith. “Dude,” he says, “it’s not like we’re going out of our way _specifically_ to make life hard for you. We’re actually, legitimately worried, because that’s what happens when people care about each other. You do know that, right?”

“No.” It’s an alarming response, until Keith barrels ahead, like he always does. “We’re not having this conversation. Not now. Not ever, preferably.”

“Look, we have to talk about this kind of stuff sometimes. We’re friends. We had the friendship talk.”

He crosses his arms, apparently choosing this as his hill to die on. “I regret the friendship talk.”

“Tough luck, buster.” Try as he might, Lance just can’t muster any sympathy for poor Keith, doomed to be surrounded by people who genuinely care about his general well-being. “You were the one who wanted to go full throttle on the friendship speeder. Besides, if we never had the friendship talk, if we didn’t make the collective decision to board the friendship speeder—”

“I want off the friendship speeder.”

“—we’d be having this exact same conversation, except not as friends. Is that really any better?” It looks like Keith has a response for that, but he can just shove it because Lance isn’t in the mood to indulge his nonsense. “Now Keith, as your friend, maybe even your _best_ friend—”

“No.”

“—I think it’s high time we had a good, long talk about all your glaringly obvious personal issues, one bestie to another.”

“What’s there to talk about? I just don't like when people have to look after me.”

“Alright,” Lance drawls. “That’d be somewhere near convincing if you weren't ready to throw yourself off a cliff before accepting help for this kinda stuff, but alright.”

There’s a silent staring contest, time crawling by at an unreasonably slow pace, which is absolutely fine. Whatever. Keith can act as childish as he wants, but he’ll never come close to ‘ornery toddler’ levels of difficult. Who’s in their element? It’s Lance.

“I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of this,” Keith relents, acting like he didn’t just definitively lose in a battle of will. “I just hate feeling like a burden. Being sick is bullshit; I can’t let something like a cold make me useless.”

So much for ‘what’s there to talk about,’ when this is _absolutely something to talk about._ “Dude.” Lance reaches out a tentative hand, clasping Keith’s shoulder. “It doesn’t matter if you’re useful or not, what matters is if you’re _okay.”_ And because Keith’s admission had a distressing amount of rationality behind it, he makes sure to clarify, “You don’t have to prove you’re worth keeping around, y’know. Besides, you’d do the same for any of us without expecting anything ‘useful’ from it. Sure, maybe you can’t build a dehumidifier, but if Pidge had a cold I know you’d lend her your jacket.”

“That’s different.” Keith’s frowning, but he’s not actually pulling away. So of course, that means Lance is all clear to push the limits.

“Keith. Keith,” he says, grabbing the sides of Keith’s face for maximum impact. “It’s definitely not.”

Which is, of course, right when a Ga’alusian rounds the corner. The same ambassador from earlier, actually, the one that wouldn’t shut up about the costs of water damage— G’fralic? G’frick? One of those, probably.

For a moment, everything is as quiet as they look at Keith, then Lance, and then Keith again.

G’fracklic turns around and waddles in the opposite direction as quickly as possible.

It takes a heroic amount of self-control, but Lance manages not to make a sound until the quickly receding footsteps fade into the distance. He waits as long as he possibly can before collapsing against Keith, wheezing in laughter. "Why does this—” Lance gasps. “Every time! Did you _see_ their _face.”_

“They just ran off,” Keith says, laughing until it turns into a cough. “Told you it was a good plan.”

“Yeah, except for the part where you’re still running around when you’re sick, and you won’t let anyone help you, ever.” Lance pulls back. “Bet you thought you’d escaped this conversation.”

“Knowing you? Never.” Keith, in an attempt to produce one of his moody snorts, makes a gross, snotty snuffling sound.

“Listen,” he says, finally. “It’s not that I don’t trust everyone. You guys are… you’re the best people I’ve ever met.”

“We’re pretty great,” Lance agrees, if only to see a flash of fond exasperation overtake the downturn set of Keith’s face.

“You are.” It’s a soft admission, which would be lethal enough on its own, but Keith goes on to add, “I just want to deserve this. Being here with everyone.”

There’s… a lot to parse in that, and a lot of context that’s probably hurtling over Lance’s head somewhere by this planet’s stratosphere-equivalent. Having to balance what he knows, what he suspects, and what’s actually being said, it takes a lot of consideration, but if there’s any time to step back and really think about what to say, it might as well be when a cannonball of sincerity is lobbed straight into his court. “Yeah,” he decides, “alright. But, and I’m just putting this out there, if you have to jump through a bunch of flaming hoops to “deserve” anything from us, we definitely wouldn’t be as good as you think we are.”

“I know.”

“You deserve better than that.”

“Like I said,” Keith continues, blatantly ignoring that particular conversational prompt, “it’s not that I don’t trust you, this is just… it’s something I can do to be sure. To make sure I won’t lose this. I can’t sit back and let myself be dead weight.” Keith looks back at Lance and, apparently misinterpreting his expression completely, seems to shut down at the sight of it. “You think I’m being ridiculous, don’t you.”

Lance bites down on the inside of his cheek, trying his best to shove a functional filter between his brain and his mouth. “I don’t think you’re being ridiculous,” he says. “Or, no, you definitely are, but it’s…” kind of really sad, which he definitely can't say. Vaguely tragic is also right out. “Self-destructive,” is what he settles on. “Look, my best friend in the universe has anxiety the size of a sun, in case you forgot, so it’s not like— I’m not gonna shut you down and say, ‘hey, that’s wrong and how dare you,’ or whatever. But if you keep going like this, you’re never going to let us look out for you. That’s not something we can just ignore.”

“Sure we could,” Keith suggests. “Easily.”

“Yeah, no, not how it works. Nice try though.” Lance leans back against the wall. This is feels like the most depressing connect-the-dots of logic he’s ever had to untangle. “Okay. How about we play a fun little game called respecting each other’s boundaries. Except it’s not fun, it’s not little, and it lasts for the rest of our lives.”

“So the opposite of a fun little game.” Keith kicks at a loose pebble. “Do you ever said what you mean? Because— just saying— everything makes a lot more sense now.”

“See, I’m letting that pass because I’m an incredible friend who’s playing the part of the understanding representative for our collective friend group, and you should appreciate that. And Me. Mostly me.” Lance clears his throat. _“Anyway_ , I promise to try to understand that you’re not trying to be a jerk about this kind of thing, as long as you try not to be a jerk about this kind of thing.”

“What does that even _mean.”_

Yeah, that was maybe a little vague. “Look, whatever scale you’re using to weigh what you’re allowed to accept from us, it’s definitely out of whack. For example! There’s no… equilibrium, I guess, from doing stuff like— like turning down Pidge’s dehumidifier. Nothing’s _actually_ balancing out. The time it’d take to make it, especially for Pidge, doesn’t even qualify as an inconvenience. And don’t forget to factor in how she’s offering specifically because she wants to help you out. Really, taking the dehumidifier would be doing her a favor.”

“That sounds like bullshit.”

“If you’re working with bullshit logic, you’ve got to use bullshit logic,” he counters, sending a mental apology towards Earth. Sorry Mom, Keith’s a terrible influence. “I’m just saying, slapping away every offer made at you, _for_ you, it’s not actually the best way of handling things. We’ll try not to crowd you, but it’ll be a lot easier if you’d at least _think_ about accepting the bare minimum of help.” As soon as he says that, one of Lance’s patented, ten-out-of-ten, fantastic, fool-proof ideas pops into his head. “In fact, why don’t we do a little test run?”

Keith narrows his eyes, skeptical as always, but apparently willing to go along with it. “Test run?”

“Take my jacket.”

Apparently the subject change is too sudden for him to follow. “But I don’t—”

“Keith. Buddy.” Lance, already shrugging off the jacket he doesn’t actually need, cuts that reprise of denial off at the pass. Second verse, same as the first. “I’m not putting this back on, even if you don’t take it. There’s literally no reason for you to be running around in less layers than you should be.”

“I’ll get sick germs all over it,” he protests, too uncertain for it to come out threatening. “I’ll sneeze into the sleeves.”

“Sneezing into your arm would be an improvement, honestly.” Better than his current method of _not even covering his mouth._ “Come on, you think I don’t see you shivering every time a stray breeze blows by?”

Keith doesn’t even dignify that with a response, instead frowning so intensely that it looks like it should hurt. He’s probably straining a muscle.

“Listen,” Lance tries, “it’s not like we’re all living based on what we need. Sure, we _could_ live without indoor plumbing, but who’d want to live in a world like that? You don’t have to need it to be allowed to use it.”

After a moment that stretches infinitely longer than it needs to because Keith probably doesn’t know that ‘graceful’ and ‘defeat’ are two words that can exist in the same universe, much less side by side, he sighs. “Fine, I’ll wear your jacket.” It’s obviously only to get Lance to shut up, but a victory’s a victory. “Thanks.”

“Now doesn’t that feel better?” There’s no chance the answer is anything but yes, but Lance is generous enough not to push it, because he’s a good friend. “Try not to get your Keith-stink too deep into the fabric.”

“There _is_ no ‘Keith-stink,’” he says, spitefully drawing the jacket around himself. “You’re just biased because next to you, anyone would smell bad.”

What.

“You smell like the perfume section of a department store,” Keith continues. “There’s no way you had that much lotion on you before we left. Where are you even getting this stuff?”

“Well—”

Before Lance can get into his lengthy and detailed and incredibly important explanation, the comms crackle to life with a brief burst of static.

“Lance, Keith.” It’s Shiro, tinny and crepitant through the earpiece. “Do you copy?”

“Yep, loud and clear,” Lance confirms. “What’s your situation?”

“Everything’s fine so far. I’ve had to redirect about three different politicians. Most of them are all bundled up in meetings and debates so far, but a few are still milling about.”

“Yeah, we’ve… _redirected_ only one so far,” Keith says. “I think you got the busier intersection.”

“That figures,” Shiro jokes. “Seems like—”

Before they can find out what it seems like, another line opens, connecting everyone.

“Paladins,” Allura’s voice chimes in, low and terse. “Ambassador Vass should be returning to his office soon. He appears to be taking a route that will lead him to the intersection where Lance and Keith are stationed. Unfortunately, we couldn’t have kept him occupied for any longer without acting very, _very_ suspect."

“He didn’t seem very enthralled by the long history of nunvillaries as a cultural touchstone spanning several galactic alliances,” Coran adds.

What a shock. “Do we have an ETA for him?”

”He just left from our location,” is all Allura can offer, which at least means they’ve got a little while— it’s maybe a five minute walk.

“We’re almost done here,” Pidge says, sounding distracted, “but we could definitely use some more time.”

“Uh, yeah, you could say that again.” From Hunk’s end, there’s a worrying and inexplicable thud. “How deeply does a file need to be encrypted? I mean, I know this isn’t exactly stuff they want to leave around, but still.”

“That’s the interesting thing though, it’s encrypted with an algorithm that isn’t—”

“Maybe continue this conversation when you’re done extracting data.” It’s a good thing Shiro’s around to wrangle the nerd squad back on track. “In the meantime, I’ll move closer to the office to make sure that no one’s around to spot you on your way out.”

“While you’re doing that, the Princess and I will man your previous station,” Coran interjects. “Having some additional security couldn’t hurt!”

“So, just to clarify, we’re dealing with the ambassador all by ourselves?” There’s no way he’d be here already, but Lance darts a look down the corridor.

“You’ll be fine,” Allura says. “Pidge, Hunk, keep us posted— let everyone know the second you two are done with extraction.”

“Got it, princess,” Hunk confirms. “You can count on us.”

With that, the comms are down and everyone’s left to their respective tasks.

“Okay. Alright. We can work with this.” All they have to do is distract an ambassador for maybe ten minutes, because if they don’t, they’ll be directly responsible for a major political catastrophe. No pressure.

“If worst comes to worst, we can accidentally knock him out.”

“You’re not punching an ambassador!”

“Fine.” Leave it to Keith to project waves of disappointment when robbed of the opportunity to punch someone. “We could just keep doing what we’re doing. It’s worked so far.”

“I don’t think excessive PDA can keep him busy long enough.” Well, PDA might not, but it’s kind of on the right track. “Okay, so have you ever watched a terrible sitcom?” Lance asks, hoping that Keith— for once in his life— absorbed at least one tiny bit of pop culture.

“So, any sitcom?”

“Uh, no?” There’s no time to be properly offended, but after this mess is over, oh, it’s on. “Just like a really cheesy one where the people dating are constantly on each other’s backs about stuff that doesn’t matter until you wonder why they ever started dating in the first place.”

“So,” Keith drawls, expression caught somewhere between fond and exasperated in a way that’s becoming increasingly familiar. “Any sitcom?”

“The point is!” Lance says, raising his arms over his head. “The point is that as long as you get where I’m coming from, we both know how to maximize the situational awkwardness here.”

Keith’s forehead wrinkles for a moment, but it doesn’t take long for realization to strike. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Lance says, grinning. “Exactly.”

 

* * *

 

By the time Ambassador Vass turns the corner, Lance and Keith are well-prepared for his entrance. That is to say, they’ve been yelling at each other a good solid minute to set the scene.

“You wouldn’t know proper rest if it knocked you unconscious! You’d probably just stand back up!” Lance exclaims, a completely valid point he’s rephrased about seven times so far.

“That doesn’t even make sense; wouldn’t that count as a win?” Meanwhile, Keith’s been building up momentum. Apparently ninety percent of his trouble finding words stems from saying everything that’s on his mind immediately. Having enough time to refine his comebacks seems to have lent him an edge.

“Oh sure, winning an imaginary fight with an abstract concept, that totally helps your case! Way to go tough guy, we’re all _so impressed.”_

The ambassador seems torn between turning around or trying to sneak by, but unfortunately for him, neither of those options are part of The Plan.

“Ambassador Vass!” Lance calls, effectively trapping him in place. “Thank goodness you’re here, maybe you can get my husband to listen to reason.”

“Yeah, right. Like anything reasonable ever comes out of _your_ mouth.”

Vass’s snout twitches in discomfort, his tail lashing. “Well, I don’t know if it’s my place to—”

“Can you believe him!” Lance turns to face the ambassador, gesturing furiously. “All it takes is the smallest hint of concern, and _this_ is how he gets. Unbelievable!”

“We wouldn’t be having this argument in the first place if _you_ weren’t—”

“If I wasn’t _what?”_ Lance asks, not even waiting for him to finish. “Worried about your health? Well _excuse me_ for being a good husband! Ambassador Vass,” Lance addresses, before any attempt at escape can be made, “would you please tell my husband he’s being a stubborn jerk?”

Vass looks like he’d rather be literally anywhere else, and Lance takes no small amount of vindictive satisfaction from that. “Well, I think—”

“Ambassador Vass,” Keith interrupts, “can you tell my husband he’s being an overbearing asshole?”

Vass looks between them. “I’m not sure I—”

 _“I’m_ the asshole!? Oh, that’s _rich._ I swear, I’m going to go grey because of you and your terrible life choices!”

“Oh no.” Keith drags the words out with an exaggerated lilt, achieving the type of theatrical sarcasm on par with a middle school play. “What a tragedy.”

“I’m sure the both of you would benefit from a more private—”

“You’d _think,”_ Keith bites out, rolling his eyes, “but no, everything has to be a production with him. Nothing gets solved without an audience, apparently!”

“Sorry for actually having emotions!”

The comms open. “Hey! Hi, how are you holding up?” Hunk asks, sounding harried. Well, this is going to be tricky.

“I don’t know how much more of this I can take!” He couples the exclamation with a dramatic huff, making sure to keep Ambassador Vass in sight.

“You should’ve thought of that before deciding a public cave was a great place for an argument,” Keith shoots back. It's a good response, and kudos to him for giving Hunk context while keeping momentum strong.

“Wow, you guys are really getting into this, aren’t you?”

“If you don’t have anything _helpful_ to say, why even say anything in the first place!”

“Alright, alright, message received.”

Keith scoffs. “It’s not like you ever listen.”

“Wait, was that for me, or was it part of your—”

“Oh, don’t tell me we’re having this argument again.” Lance is just about ready to pull out his earpiece and throw it against a wall. Please, Hunk, an update would be nice. “Don’t you have _anything new to say!”_

“Yeah, right, status report: we’re… hold on—”

“Anything at all!” He repeats for good measure.

“—just about all in the clear.”

“If I say no, does that mean we can stop fighting?” Keith retorts, which is admittedly some good improvisation right there.

“Yeah, we should be fine now.”

“You think I _want_ to fight?” Lance throws his arms out, launching their eighties sitcom straight into soap opera territory. “I’m doing this because I love you!”

Keith splutters, turning red, which is a bit much considering they’re supposed to be married, not two days deep into a new relationship. A thespian Keith is not. However, Lance is more than willing to pick up the slack.

“If anything happened, I don’t know _what_ I’d do.” Lance, continuing his maudlin dramatics, sniffs pathetically. “I know you can take care of yourself, but can’t you see you’re _important_ to me? I’d never be able to _forgive_ myself if you got _hurt!”_

Over the comms, which haven’t been closed, _apparently,_ he can hear Hunk wheezing with laughter. Helpful.

Keith, who’s _actually_ being helpful, wraps Lance into a suitably tender embrace. “I... I’m sorry for making you worry. I’m not going to drop dead from a cold, you know.” His long-suffering sigh is probably more authentic than anything else. “But maybe I could afford to rest. A little.”

“Oh honey, that’s all I ask.”

Vass, by this point, has started softly hissing in confusion, which is honestly just a little bit terrifying, so it’s a good thing they’re wrapping this up. Lance pulls away, wiping a nonexistent tear. “I’m so sorry for dragging you into this, ambassador,” he lies through his teeth, offering a wobbly smile. “We’ll get out of your hair now”

“Hair?” Vass echoes, confused.

Lance pretends not to hear as he grabs Keith’s hand and drags him in the opposite direction as fast as he can manage without being completely obvious.

 

* * *

 

 “So it was encrypted by the Galra?” Shiro asks, peering over Pidge’s shoulder.

“Yep. Explains why they couldn’t just get rid of the evidence, other than knowing what to cover up. There was something like a disposition schedule saved with the rest of the files. The primary purpose was basically— fuck.” Pidge scowls, looking like she swallowed a lime. “They saved the files for use in propaganda, to show how ‘primitive’ societies exploited each other. Galra occupation was ‘objectively advantageous’ because Ga’alusians ‘couldn’t be trusted to guide themselves’. A secondary use was apparently going to be leverage in case they ever needed to...” She takes a second to steel herself, which isn’t a good sign at all. “In case they ever decided there was too much dissent, they wanted to have the ability to orchestrate mutually assured destruction. They’d manipulate the files, spread rumors, and set things up so that it looked like there wasn’t enough food or shelter to go around until they killed each other off.”

There’s a moment of silence. Everyone knows the depths of Zarkon’s cruelty. They know what lengths the Galra empire would go to in order to achieve their goals. Still, something like this… Lance doesn’t want it to sink in. Doesn’t want to think about how someone could lay out those plans with the clinical calm of someone sending off a work email.

Finally, Hunk breaks the silence with a sigh as heavy as a landslide. “So we know why they still had it around. Question is: what are we gonna do with it now?”

“We should dump it all on a public channel,” Pidge says, immediately. “People deserve to know about this. It wouldn’t take long for me to—”

Allura shakes her head. “Regardless of how true that may be, it’s not our right to manipulate the information. The knowledge of indignities inflicted on the S’russ by all rights belong to the S’russ, not us. They should decide what to do with it. It’s their right.”

Yeah, that makes sense. Logistically speaking, though… “So what, are we gonna hand everything over to Ambassador Scimi? Like, hey, funny story, we investigated your co-worker’s office by mistake and just _happened_ to find this heavily encrypted info?”

“No, that wouldn’t do,” Allura says. “Instead, we can say something like… we discovered the information on the castle’s archived datafeeds that have been kept updated through use of transmission interception technology, and it’s available for public use due to… oh, what’s a code that would work?”

Coran hums, deep in thought. “Well, if I were to narrow it down to one, I’d say that the Demetriaqui Sol-seven Protocol would do.”

That’s almost certainly a boiling pot of hot nonsense, but if it gets the info out without messing things up, it works for Lance. “Are we going to hand this over when she gets back from politics, or is this something we’ll be bringing up at breakfast?”

“I’m all for the option that doesn’t make Aeg hate us because we kept her wife at work all night,” Hunk volunteers.

“Fair point,” Shiro concedes.

“On the subject of people who don’t take care of themselves,” Pidge says, making no attempt at subtlety, “we managed to get ahold of something like a decongestant.” She looks at Keith. “Do you want it?”

“I don’t—”

Lance elbows Keith.

He sighs. “Actually,” he says, ruefully, “that would be nice. Thank you.”

Lance pats him on the back, swallowing down the ‘was that so hard,’ in the back of his throat because, yeah, for Keith it probably was.

“Great,” Pidge chirps. “Also, we finished the dehumidifier, so that should make sleeping in here much more comfortable.”

“You built it anyway?”

“I said I wouldn’t build _you_ a dehumidifier, not that I wouldn’t build one for the whole team. Let’s face it, even the dry cave is kind of drippy.” She retrieves the machine, then fiddles with it. “It’s got a pretty decent range. If you didn’t take it, I would’ve given it to Lance.”

Huh? “Why me?”

“I’m sure we could’ve counted on you to stick close to him, like the good husband you are.” Dangit, Hunk. “Or to get really sick, considering how close you’ve been.” _Dangit_ , Hunk.

“Coran and I figured out a calcium chloride substitute,” Hunk explains, ignoring Lance’s look of betrayal. “It was basically the same drill as when we need our prescriptions refilled. I told Coran the basic chemical structure and fun stuff like that, and Coran figured out how to replicate it. We got it while picking up the expeditor. The mice nearly took us out trying to protect the ship, but it was pretty easy aside from that.”

“Then Hunk and I built the machine from scraps,” Pidge concluded. “Took no time at all."

Keith looks like he doesn’t really know how to react. “I don’t know how to, uh, repa—” He stops himself. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You really don’t have to, considering this kind of helps the whole team,” Hunk reassures him, “but if you feel like you absolutely, positively, _have_ to do something, get some proper rest.”

“Yeah, I feel sick just looking at you.” Pidge pauses, mulling over exactly how that sounded. “That came out wrong. Just go to sleep, please. We’ve got everything covered from here on out.”

“Alright,” he says, and thank goodness for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [12:38:13 AM] Air: in-fic meme:  
> [12:38:17 AM] Air: time to punch an ambassador  
> [12:38:42 AM] Stella: gotta love a good ol' in-fic meme


	8. The Best Time for a Nap is Right After Instigating some Major Political Upheaval

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Sleeping On Information is Excruciatingly Literal and Lance Might Figuratively Die if it Persists

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy this chapter and the Garrison Trio found family dynamics that it's chock full of because I know!! Stella and I enjoyed writing it!!  
> Now, politics. That's a bit more difficult to write.  
> \- Air
> 
> POLITICS IS, QUITE DIFFICULT TO WRITE, HOO BOY. thank goodness air's here to Get That Handled. not to mention a lot happened while this was gettin wrote, but I'm out of standardize testing hell and ready to launch myself into grad app hell. Also, I have a cat. If y'all are reading this note, please, take a second to think about what a good and perfect cat Tango is.  
> \- Stella

It only took a gratuitous amount of time, effort, and emotionally draining conversations, but Keith is finally resting. Or, he’s resting as much as Keith ever does. At the very least, he’s horizontal and stationary and probably asleep. It’s a good thing too, considering the fact that everyone who qualifies as a responsible adult is out schmoozing with diplomats for the rest of the evening.

It’s partially so the visit with Ambassador Vass doesn’t stand out as an outlier in terms of ‘politicians specifically targeted by Team Voltron right before a massive leak of confidential information’, but also, that’s kind of what they’re here to do in the first place. The responsible adults, that is. The rest of the paladins are free to chill out where they can’t cause unsupervised damage, and that means Lance can indulge in his favorite pastime: talking at length about Keith’s terrible life choices.

“You can’t just go, ‘oh yeah, I’m sick, but I can _totally_ beat you back to the cavern! After a mission I shouldn’t have been on! Also I don’t understand concepts like _basic physical limitations!’_ It wasn't even a challenge, I was just stating _objective fact—_ when you’re constantly leaking snot, _surprise,_ you’re not going to be as fast as you usually are! You’d think being sick would curb some of his capacity for awful ideas,” Lance grumbles. Quietly. No point in undoing all the hard work of actually getting Keith to sleep.

“Honestly? What I _thought_ was that I’d be free from all your endless ‘Keith is the worst’ rants. Didn’t you guys have…” Hunk trails off, a set to their face that means they’re torn between their usual nosiness and a burning need to be oblivious to whatever they think is going on. It takes a while, but they eventually decide on addressing the whole thing as: “Some kind of moment?”

Well. That’s certainly a conversation he’s managed to avoid for a while.

And he’s going to keep avoiding it.

“Just because we’re friends doesn't mean I can't point out some glaringly obvious personality flaws,” Lance scoffs, elegantly side-stepping that transparent probe. “It’s been _two days_ and I’m already tired of being his impulse control.”

Hunk turns to level him under a stare flat enough to classify as a separate dimension. “Lance, you’re my friend and I love you, but the next time you complain about being someone else’s impulse control I am _absolutely_ going to glue you to a mirror.”

“I’ll help,” Pidge volunteers, “but let’s be real, he’d probably get a kick out of it.” Apparently, despite being fully engaged with some 3D modelling something-or-other, she’s always able to spare enough focus for a well-placed jab.

Lance sticks his tongue out, which she definitely can’t see. It’s the thought that counts. He scoots further away to lean against Hunk, turning his back on his so-called friends once and for all, in every sense of the phrase. “You can blatantly imply whatever slander you want, but come on. I mean, look at him!” Lance gestures to the unmoving lump on the moss pad, because really, what else needs to be said. “That can’t be healthy.”

“Whatever you’re referring to, I probably object on principle. Or agree. One or the other,” Hunk says, leaning their head back so that it thunks against the back of Lance’s.

“One, those are the only two options here; two, _everything.”_ And while ‘everything’ is absolutely what to take issue with when it comes to ‘Keith’s wobbly jenga tower of a worldview built out of interlocking coping mechanisms’, there are some very important aspects of that ‘everything’ that aren’t his place to bring up. Now’s not the right time to bust out that particular can of internalized worms. No, this is one instance where Lance is going to stay firmly in his lane, which means another round of excruciatingly conscientious self-censorship. “Like,” he hazards, for once having to scramble to string together a viable complaint about Keith, “the— the whole… shoes. The shoes thing. That’s bad.”

Nailed it.

Hunk’s shoulders shift into what’s either a shrug, or a strange and impromptu stretch. “Well,” they start, “yeah, I guess. But I think it’s like a pressure stim thing? Or even a safety thing, like his knife. But also, if that was the only reason he’d never leave his armor. Honestly, it’s basically you and your sleep mask. Whatever helps, helps.”

It’s a valid observation. But also, so is: “My sleep mask isn’t covered in germs.”

“ _Lance_.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Lance reaches behind him to pat Hunk’s arm. “I’m actually picking up what you’re putting down, believe it or not.”

“Are you really, though? Because with who you are, as a person, you’re either going to toss it off a cliff or run a marathon with it. No in-between.”

Was that a compliment? “I’m taking that as a compliment.”

“It kind of was,” Hunk admits, bumping their shoulder back into Lance’s. “Whenever you actually decide to listen, five hundred percent of the time you’re pretty great about it.” They sigh. “And the rest of the time you do stuff like going off and trying to build your own soap opera from the ground up.”

“Sounds to me like I’m great always, and the rest of the time, I’m coming up with incredible, ingenious plans that single-handedly save the mission.”

“That was the one good thing about space,” they continue, ignoring his objectively true interjection, “no soap operas.”

“You just don’t appreciate true art,” Lance sniffs, settling into the comfortable rut of a well-worn argument.

“What I don’t appreciate is being woken up at two in the morning because Isa’s mother fell into a coma after cheating on Charlie with Hector, and Isa decided that the best way to cope was by hotwiring the car and faking her own death!”

“You’re _kidding,”_ Pidge calls, incredulous to what’s, _contextually,_ a _very powerful scene._

“Everything I just said was a real development on a real show. Trust me, the whole thing is somehow less believable than the fact that we pilot flying lions that turn into a giant robot with a sword.”

“It’s not supposed to be believable!” Why is Lance constantly surrounded by people incapable of grasping the complexity and nuance of his favorite shows. “It’s supposed to reflect the human condition! Emotions! Familial connection! The power of love!”

“How does that translate to love knocking someone into a coma?”

“It’s all about _dramatic tension,”_ Lance insists. “Who doesn't want a little dramatic tension in their lives!”

“I get enough of that whenever you barrel headfirst into a healing pod, thanks.” Which is completely uncalled for, it’s not like Lance goes out of his way to throw himself at bombs willy-nilly, but Hunk doesn't give him a chance to defend himself. “At least we don't have to worry about that this go-around,” they say.

And it’s true, this mission _has_ been pretty low on the scale of bodily harm. “Just diplomacy and unexpected espionage,” he notes, “not to mention dying of boredom.”

Even without seeing Hunk’s face, Lance can tell they’re rolling their eyes. “Complain all you want, I’m going to enjoy the lack of any imminent catastrophe while I can.”

“Hey, you know I’m always up for some downtime. It wouldn’t be so bad if I brought something to knit.” After all, downtime’s only fun when there’s something to do. “At least you and Pidge have tech to mess with; all I can do is stare at the wall, listen to politics, or talk to you guys. Except Pidge, since she’s always doing boring Pidge stuff.”

Hunk snorts, which of course, means there must’ve been some nonverbal retaliation levied by the girl in question. “Did she just flip me off? While my back’s turned! Et tu, Pidge?”

“I mean, yeah,” Hunk admits, “but that’s not why I laughed.”

Now those are some fighting words. Or at least, ‘indignantly scooting away to glare in affront’ words. “I’m just saying, there aren't a lot of options here!”

“It’s true.”

Except Hunk says ‘it’s true’ the same way someone says ‘sure, buddy’. But not a sincere ‘sure, buddy’! A ‘sure, buddy’ of condescending indulgence, a ‘sure, buddy’ used to sooth a temperamental child, a ‘sure, buddy’ that means anything but. “Yeah, it _is,”_ Lance shoots back, narrowing his eyes, “so there’s absolutely no reason to take that kind of tone with me, buster.”

“Lance,” they say, with an annoying amount of patience, “you do that anyway. The talking thing, at least. Not much room for politics on a ship with seven people and a literal handful of mice. Also robots. There _are_ a lot of walls to stare at, though.” Hunk takes a second, probably thinking of one wall in particular. “Anyway, doesn't matter if you have something to do or not, you don't let a single day pass by without deciding that alone time is boring and you’d rather flop down next to one of us. Even Pidge, while she’s doing her super cool and interesting tech stuff.”

 _“Thank_ you.” In some roundabout passive-aggressive nonsense, she chooses right then to make something holo-explode. Which is, admittedly, pretty cool and interesting.

“I mean,” Hunk continues, “maybe I’m wrong, and your favorite pastime isn’t hanging out with us, but as your best friend, I think I’m qualified in saying that I have an extremely small possible margin of error here.”

 _“My point is,”_ Lance retorts, because he’s got an image to maintain, “I’m ready for this field trip to go from the boring schoolwork part to the fun vacation part.” He sighs. “Can’t say I’ll be sorry to kiss those documents goodbye. At least they’ll help Ambassador Scimi.”

Hunk makes a thoughtful sound, a little too contemplative for outright agreement.

“What’s up?” Lance asks, punctuating the question with a light nudge.

“It’s just…” Hunk trails off, staring into some vague distance, as if they’d find the words they’re looking for on the dips and bumps of the cave walls. “I know that whenever we stumble upon something horrifying and sad, we’re supposed to use that as some kind of, ‘well, we’ll make things right, and we’ll stop Zarkon’. Strengthen our resolve and all that. We can’t really let ourselves get all caught up in how much everyone’s lost because goodness knows if I take a second to even think about everything Allura and Coran had to sacrifice, I’d start blubbering, and they’re only two people. Two friends, but just two people out of everyone, y’know?”

Hunk stares down at their hands, squeezing them into fists. “No matter what we do to help people, whether it’s taking down Zarkon, or making sure their suffering isn’t swept under the rug, it doesn't change the fact that whatever happened, happened. And I know that this all happened before we were even born, and there’s nothing we could have done, but… people got hurt. We can’t even take time to consider how much of a tragedy that is because that’s just how life _is_ for basically everyone in the galaxy; it’s so universal I can’t even be surprised anymore, and it _sucks,_ people hurting like this shouldn’t be— it shouldn’t be an everyday thing.”

And how is Lance supposed to respond to that in any other way than scooting closer and wrapping them into a hug? They sit like that for a moment, Hunk resting their head on Lance’s shoulder. Then, Lance does what he does best.

He talks.

“C’mon, buddy,” he says, rubbing Hunk’s back. “That’s what we’re here for, y’know? The whole point of being ultra cool defenders of the universe is to fix this kind of stuff. It’s basically our job.”

Hunk sighs, leaning into the hug. “I guess,” they say, not nearly comforted enough.

Well, talking was a bust. Looks like Lance’s gonna need backup on this one.

“Pidge, get over here.”

“I’m still sweaty,” she says, already making her way over. “It’ll feel disgusting,” she says, flopping on top of Hunk.

“Everything feels disgusting in this humidity.” Lance pats her on the back with a distressingly damp hand, which she bats away. By the face she’s making, she’s not a fan of sweaty back pats.

“Maybe it’s a good thing you didn't bring any yarn with you,” she points out, edging as far out of reach as she can. Which isn’t that far, considering they’re both hugging the same person.

“Look, who knows what alien space-yarn can handle! I don’t see your _stolen wall-tech_ getting all damp.”

“Yep,” Hunk agrees, adjusting their position in the cuddle pile. “It’s designed to withstand this humidity.”

Really? That’s all they have to say about their stolen wall-tech? “I give up! I’m friends with heathens!”

He can’t even work himself up for a decent rant before Hunk shushes him, reaching over to pat his face. “Less talking, more napping.”

Pidge yawns, in what’s a suspiciously well-timed coincidence. “Pretty sure it’s almost our bedtime anyway.” Which is hilarious, coming from the insomnia gremlin.

And that would be a fair enough proposal, except Lance! Has principles! “I can’t sleep yet,” he protests. “I have a _routine._ You guys— you’re not even wearing pajamas!” Lance gasps. “Oh my god, it’s contagious. I knew this would happen. First it’s wearing dirty clothes to bed, then next thing you know we all have mullets.”

“Either move or don't,” Pidge suggests. “I’m comfortable here. Hunk’s a great pillow.”

And goshdarnit, they really are. Once again, Lance’s principles are rendered powerless within the black hole of Hunk’s napping radius.

 

* * *

 

Keith is sleeping in for once in his life, which manages to be both a relief and cause for some serious concern; it feels eerily similar to all the times Lance had to peer at his family’s ancient cat, checking to see if she was still breathing. The guy’s just completely passed out; he’s been that way the second he approached any degree approximating horizontal, and nobody’s had the heart to even try to wake him up. Which means he slept through dinner. And is sleeping through breakfast. Now, missing a meal is never healthy, but two consecutive meals? Of course Lance is going to be a little preoccupied by this shocking display of enervation as the team heads out for the most important meal of the day.

“Like sure,” he continues, coping with his completely legitimate worries in the most effective manner possible: spreading it around. “We left a note, but can we _really_ count on sleep-addled Keith to reliably feed himself? Fifteen hours has to be _at least_ three times the amount of sleep he usually gets—”

“ _Lance_ ,” Pidge says, her voice dry enough that she could be channeling a desert. “It’s great that you’re being such a considerate husband, but please. He’ll be fine.”

“But—”

“Scimi was nice enough to bring more than enough leftovers,” Hunk notes.

“But—”

“Keith can take care of himself,” Shiro reassures, which is pretty definitive considering he’s the one that probably knows Keith best.

_But._

“I’m just saying,” Lance continues, prompting Pidge and Hunk to groan, even though everyone else is mature enough to take a legitimate concern into consideration, and— amazingly enough— forgo the juvenile theatrics. “Maybe we should—”

Lance doesn’t get to elaborate on his completely valid point because that’s when someone calls for them to wait up, and surprisingly enough, that someone turns out to be Aeg.

“Good morning,” she says, once she’s caught up to them.

“Good morning, Aeg,” Allura greets warmly. “I didn’t expect our paths to cross. Will Ambassador Scimi be joining us for our walk as well?”

“Oh, no.” Aeg settles into a comfortable pace, surprisingly fast despite her very short sets of legs. “Scimi had to start her day much earlier, unfortunately. You’d think that at the very least politicians could set a schedule for their proceedings— that would be the correct word, wouldn’t it?— before they rush around doing anything else. Still, that would make just about too much sense. Can’t have that.” Aeg’s tail flicks. “No, I’m alone for now. Scimi will join us for breakfast almost exactly on time, though. If I know anything, it’s that.” Her voice resonates with an exasperated fondness that Lance can relate to all too well.

“Wow,” Pidge says, for some reason sounding way more impressed and innocent than was necessary, “you’re _really_ good at handling your relationship.”

Aeg brings a claw to her face, and apparently there _is_ some bioluminescent something-or-other going on because she literally glows with embarrassment. “Well, we’ve certainly—”

“Maybe you could give Lance some tips?” Pidge interrupts, and _first_ of all, rude, second of all, what? But Lance ends up not having to ask exactly that, because she just keeps going with, “he’s having some kind of separation anxiety since Keith’s still resting up. I’m sure he could use some advice from someone experienced with this sort of thing.”

Aeg tuts sympathetically, canting her head towards Lance quickly enough that he doesn’t have time to offer any kind of retaliation. “I did hear that he was feeling ill. How is he?”

Lance weighed the pros and cons of exaggerating before deciding the truth was probably best. “Still under the weather, but probably not for long,” he admits.

Aeg’s expression translates into something like a very carefully composed look of polite difference; she probably got the gist, but… right. They’re underground, and weather really doesn’t have any kind of equivalent down here. Whoops. Words are hard.

“It’s a shame that he’ll miss the communal meal,” Aeg says, “but I’m glad he’s getting some much-deserved rest.”

“Absolutely,” Lance agrees, letting the dams burst. Finally! He can express his legitimate, important concerns to someone who might actually listen! “Goodness knows he won’t stop for a single second, usually. I’m just worried he won’t feel like eating when he wakes up. Which makes sense, because that’s what happens when you pass out for like, a day and a half.” Lance sighs, a full-body exhale that hopefully communicates the massive amount of concern that caring about Keith’s wellbeing tends to generate. “I mean, I know he _can_ take care of himself, but who knows if he actually will!”

Aeg is… well, definitely not overjoyed, but there’s definitely a shift to how she’s regarding him. “I understand completely,” she says, her voice taking on the tone of someone meeting an ally after years of wading alone through the trenches, or someone glimpsing a distant raincloud after a particularly bad drought. “Scimi’s the same way! When she decides that something needs to get done, she’ll do everything she possibly can to make it happen, and of course, that’s one of the many reasons I love her, but sometimes I’m afraid that she’ll push herself beyond her limits! And the worst of it is, she never wants to worry me! In theory that would be a _wonderful_ trait to have, but not when it’s at the expense of her health! Her definition of ‘a necessary cause for healthy alarm’ is much different from a reasonable one.”

“You’re telling me!” Lance shakes his head. “Keith wouldn't let anyone worry over him unless he was on the verge of _death,_ and even then he’d probably tell us to stop overreacting. Doesn't help that he’s always running into danger headfirst!”

Hunk shoots him the most exasperated look imaginable, while Pidge mouths either ‘pick a crib’ or ‘hypocrite’ at him, but whatever! He’s got a new best friend, one who actually gets where he’s coming from.

He makes a point of not making eye contact with them as the group moves out of the doorway and down the corridor, instead spending the rest of the walk exchanging stories with Aeg about looking out for someone who sucks at looking out for themselves.

 

* * *

 

Breakfast is fine. It’s completely, totally fine, but there’s one heck of a one-sided tension that’s hard to sit through, and it’d be _really great_ if they could just spring the documents and get the whole thing over with, but like everything related to politics, it’s a bit of a delicate situation to navigate. Apparently, Allura’s paying a lot of attention to things like ‘conversational direction’ and ‘timing’ while Coran seems content to let her take the lead. But Lance isn’t really built for secrets, and this one in particular is eating at him, considering the multiple layers of subterfuge on top of the overarching facade they’re already enmired in.

“Are you alright?” Aeg asks him. Her tongue flicks out. “You’ve barely eaten a thing.”

“Oh! Uh, yeah,” Lance responds. “I’m— I’m just... ”

“Still worried?” Aeg chitters in an understanding, mildly indulgent way. “We’ll be done here soon enough, don’t you fret. How can you take care of him if you don't take care of yourself?”

“I just want to be there for him, y’know?” Lance lets out a forlorn sigh, admittedly leaning into the role a little much. Hunk makes a gesture that Lance chooses to interpret as ‘nice save, Lance.’

Allura, at least, seems to pick up on his obvious discomfort, since she picks up the pace in conversational developments, moving it from ‘glacially slow’ to ‘room temperature, almost’. She nods at whatever Ambassador Scimi just said. “The infrastructure developments are quite impressive, especially given the time-frame you’ve been working with. Pidge in particular is _very_ interested in the broadcast system.”

Pidge glances up at her name, perking up with interest at the chance to ramble at length about science. “That’s because it _is_ interesting,” she says, leaning in. “Earth’s frequencies tend to rely on communication between antennas and satellites because we’re bouncing things like composite video and sound signals between the two, sending and receiving things back and forth through a system of call and response.”

“But the thing is,” Hunk says, barreling in, “your entire system is based underground with limited access to the surface, and we haven’t seen like, any cables whatsoever. So! Pidge and I have several hypotheses about how that might be workable, but we figured it’d be better to ask you directly. I’m pretty sure that you’re using a mesh configuration, but Pidge thinks—”

“Assuming that would be pretty myopic of us, considering Earth isn’t the only planet capable of creating unique communications frameworks.”

“I’m not saying it is,” Hunk insists, “I’m just saying that mesh configurations _work.”_

“So do ultra-low frequencies, but our context is extremely limited, seeing as humans didn’t develop subterranean lifestyles! Of course our technology isn’t as adapted to it as theirs.”

“As much as I hate to interrupt,” Ambassador Scimi says, “I’m afraid I must admit that I don’t actually know much about the broadcast system. I’m no communications officer, unfortunately.”

Pidge and Hunk swivel to look at Aeg in what’s probably the most frightening synchronized staredown Lance has ever seen.

Aeg flicks her tail sheepishly. “That’s not my grub,” she admits, “I’m an archivist, not an engineer. I know how to navigate databases and feeds, sure, but breaking down how they function is a bit beyond me.”

And there’s Allura’s opening. “Speaking of,” she says, clearing her throat, “we actually have something to share with you, Ambassador Scimi. Coran has been doing a comprehensive job of backing up and updating the necessary data feeds stored in our ship’s processors. However, considering this job is rather extensive and tedious, it was only recently that we recovered the majority of files pertinent to Ga’alus. A great deal of documentation seems to be regarding subject matter that by all rights should belong to the S’russ, and we decided it would be best to give you the information.”

Ambassador Scimi has a subdued look to her, all the gravity of politics mode with none of the passionate belligerence she’s had to employ. Aeg, on the other hand, is very bad at disguising her excitement at the prospect of new information.“What kind of documents?” She asks, snuffling in interest.

Now isn't _that_ a fun question. Allura hesitates for the first time since this entire conversation. “Pidge will pass you a data storage device compatible with your technology in a moment,” she answers, though it doesn't actually answer much. “I should warn you, much of the information collected by our data feeds were mined from Galra sources; there’s no doubt it contains material that may be emotionally exhausting to view.”

Ambassador Scimi makes a noise close to her chittering laughter, though it doesn’t sound as happy. “Fortunately, I could say the same thing about most things when it comes to my job.” She snuffles, clearing her trunk. “But it’s a job worth doing. So let’s have a look.”

Considering everything they knew about Ambassador Scimi, they probably should’ve been prepared for her reaction. In their defense, it’s pretty hard to prepare for an ambassador to drop everything and just start yelling. Or, maybe it isn't, but so far the whole wordless, sustained yelling thing hasn't been as common off of Ga’alus.

As much as the yelling sounds the same as usual to Lance, there must be some tonality to it that colors it with a different emotion because one second Aeg is sitting on her side of the table, and the next she’s beside Ambassador Scimi, poised for support. “Scimi?” Aeg prompts, her tongue flicking in what’s becoming more and more obviously a gesture of concern. “Is everything alright?”

“I— Yes, it… No— Yes? Yes.” Ambassador Scimi heaves in a deep breath. “It’s going to be. It’s… Eventually, it’s going to be.” She stands from the table. “I’m sorry,” she apologizes, addressing the Team Voltron, “but I need to take a short— Aeg and I will be right back.”

As Ambassador Scimi rushes out of the room, Aeg right behind her, everyone else takes a moment to stare at each other.

After a moment, Allura drops her head to the table, cradling it in her arms. There’s a soft thunk noise, accompanied by indiscernible, but definitely frustrated mumbling.

Shiro reaches out to pat her on the shoulder. “Well,” he says, “that could have gone better.”

“As reactions go, it’s certainly not the worst I’ve seen,” Coran adds. “It took your father quite some time to reach your level of tact.”

“I never know how much to say,” comes low and quiet, almost impossible to hear. “I never know the right thing to say.” Which is something Lance never thought he’d hear from Allura, of all people, and he exchanges a helpless, alarmed look with the humans of Team Voltron as Coran lays a somber hand on her head.

Just when it looks like someone’s about to gear up and launch into a speech of some sort, Allura sits up, and the moment passes. Once again, she’s the picture of a confident leader who knows exactly what she’s doing. “We’ll just have to wait and see how it goes,” she says, decisively sweeping that moment of vulnerability under the rug of social propriety and making it impossible to pursue any further.

It doesn't take much longer after that for Aeg and Ambassador Scimi to come back to the table, looking marginally more composed than they were during the whole extended yelling session.

“I apologize,” Ambassador Scimi starts, prompting immediate protest.

“No need for you to—”

“There’s nothing to be—”

“We should’ve—”

“You misunderstand,” she interrupts, reclaiming the floor. “I am apologizing for not providing you with proper context, not for my emotional outburst. No matter how unprofessional it may have been, I don’t regret my response. Or, I do,” she clarifies, looking sheepish, “because it was rather embarrassing.” She sniffs in what’s probably an analogue to throat-clearing. “However, I don’t regret it in its entirety because I need you to understand just how important this is. You were right to think this information may cause distress, but… there are a number of emotions and results this could spur. A tunnel can go anywhere, depending on where you dig. If we handle this responsibly, it could lead us… it could lead us to a much better place.”

Aeg takes a moment to bump snouts with Ambassador Scimi, then faces the team. “You couldn’t have known how important this was— _is_ to us.”

On a scale from Hunk’s look of obvious internal conflict to Pidge’s impenetrable poker face, Lance thinks he’s somewhere in the middle. Hopefully. It’s a good thing Ga’alusians aren’t equipped to read human facial expressions.

“I assure you,” Aeg continues, “this information will not go to waste. If you have time later, I can fill you in on why we reacted so, well, explosively.”

Scimi chitters. “Ah, yes, both of us, clearly. It wasn’t as if I, the diplomat, reacted inappropriately, and you, the civilian had to handle it. Of course. We were both over-emotional fools.”

“Absolutely,” Aeg says, looking over at her wife. “Glad you agree. It’s important to interpret events correctly in archiving, you know. I’m a trusted source.”

“That you are,” Ambassador Scimi agrees. She lets out a small sound. “I apologize, but this new information— I have to schedule _many_ meetings. So many. Oh dear.” She stares into space, but she doesn’t look distressed so much as she seems… apprehensive? Hopeful? Anticipatory? It’s really hard to read alien body language.

“As much as I would like to fill you in on exactly what this has done for us, I don’t know if it would even be possible for me to schedule—”

“Scimi,” Aeg interrupts, chittering slightly. “I can handle it. Go. Do what you can. You’ll be great.”

Ambassador Scimi stares at her for a long moment, then sighs. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Aeg replies, “Now go do what you do best.”

They touch snouts once more, and after that, Ambassador Scimi is gone, leaving Team Voltron with Ambassador Aeg, who promptly deflates. “I,” she says, dragging out the pronoun, “am very, very tired. If it’s alright with you all, can we have a bit of lighter conversation first? It takes a lot of energy to be justifiably angry, and I need a bit to recharge before I can handle giving you all the context you need.”

“Sounds like we’re in for quite the tale,” Shiro says.

“Oh,” Aeg responds, letting out a long, deep breath, “you have no idea.”

Lance tries not to feel too guilty about that.

 

* * *

 

In the end, the majority of the S’russ politicians decide that the information is best publicized, and they upload it directly to a public channel. So, in the end, Pidge gets her way. As usual.

“Already a bunch of Kanturian senators claiming they had no clue, so that’s bunk.” Pidge, for the first time in what feels like hours, tears her eyes from the terminal she’s plugged into just so she can roll them. “At least they’re acknowledging that it actually happened now.”

“I just hope Ambassador Scimi gets them to promise they’ll actually help undo the damage,” Hunk says. “Not that they can get out of it now that there’s actually evidence.”

“You’d be surprised.” Keith crosses his arms, using his newly regained state of health to be as justifiably suspicious of potential government conspiracies and underhanded machinations as possible. “I’m not happy until we see results.”

Which is actually something everyone probably agrees on. “Darn skippy,” Lance says. He tosses a rock back and forth between his hands. “If there’s anything people are good at, it’s dodging responsibility.”

“Unfortunately,” Allura counters, “politics take a rather long time. There isn’t much we can do to expedite the process.” Nobody’s really happy with that fact of reality. But if Allura’s there to be the bearer of bad news, Coran’s around to lighten the load.

“There _is_ a marked shift in opinion among formerly neutral parties,” he notes. “Action may take less time than we think!”

Ah yes, the neutral parties. “Action shouldn’t have taken this long in the first place,” Lance scoffs. “And what exactly was their excuse?”

“Oh, I know that one,” Hunk says. “It was in the stuff Aeg gave us, like the extra news and stuff?”

Right. The really long, wordy documents. That Lance meant to read. And then did not. Luckily, Hunk is a gift and a shining light in the darkness who is always willing to summarize.

“The Serr used to be way far away from everybody else, so the Kanture were their only viable trading partner, and they didn’t want to piss them off by saying, hey, maybe stop exploiting people. As for the Leot, I’m pretty sure they had a treaty or something?”

“The Kanture and the Leot had a non-intervention treaty after a long, involved series of conflicts between the two,” Allura confirms.

“Okay, so those were their reasons when the S’russ were actually dying and they decided not to help, I guess!” That sure makes it better! _Not_. “What I want to know is why they’re still acting neutral _now.”_

“It’d be admitting they were wrong when it was actually happening,” Keith bites out, an impressive furrow to his brow. “That’s how it works. In this kind of situation they’d never even try to admit it, not as long as they can ignore it.”

Hunk sighs. “See, that’s the thing that bugs me. I mean, the fact that it happened at all bugs me, but like, how are you supposed to move forward if you never admit you were wrong?”

“Well, they have to now,” Pidge says. “We made sure of that.”

Even if they did have to keep it on the downlow. “You’re not commenting on anything, right? No Ga’alusian social media or anything?”

Pidge turns to give him a look that’s way more judgemental than anything calls for. “Yes, Lance, I’m ignoring everything the ambassador told us about how our involvement with the leak could spell trouble for everyone involved. I love spurring political debates over whether or not isolationism is a viable framework. Why don’t you take a seat next to me and help make Ambassador Scimi’s life harder just so that we can watch the accolades roll in?”

“Y’know, one of these days you’re gonna get stuck speaking nothing but sarcasm.”

Pidge snorts. “I don’t know what you mean by sarcasm, I thought I was doing a spot-on imitation of you.”

“I wouldn’t do that!” Lance objects, in the face of Pidge’s _completely baseless_ skepticism.

“Oh, really? You’re not even a little tempted?”

“We got enough thanks already.” After all, they’re kind of here to enjoy a celebration honoring them in the first place. Also he has a kid named after him. Kind of. A Kid named after Keith, but whatever. Bottom line, there really isn’t a point in showboating, not if it’s going to cause more trouble than it’s worth. This is a secret mission that can stay secret.

Pidge looks… genuinely proud, which is a little bit insulting. “Looks like our Lance is growing up to be a big boy.”

She even pats him on the head, just to be a huge jerk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [10/18/2016 1:55:31 PM] Air: Lance is  
> [10/18/2016 1:55:34 PM] Air: so fun to write  
> [10/18/2016 1:55:44 PM] Air: lance: gets what he wants for once  
> [10/18/2016 1:55:50 PM] Air: lance:….suspicious.....  
> [10/18/2016 1:56:16 PM] Stella: what a disaster child


	9. A Paladin by Any Other Name (is Still a Paladin Worth Admiring)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Ceremonial Composure Depends on the Ceremonial Composition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for deadnaming in this chapter. Stay safe, friends. Also, thank you Stella for writing the vast majority of this chapter while executive dysfunction kicked my ass.  
> \- Air
> 
>   
> \- Stella

Despite the whirlwind of sudden Politics, everything's still on schedule, which means the Voltron Appreciation Party is still on. Lance isn’t complaining; the necessity of further political schmoozing isn’t exactly up his alley, but celebrating the accomplishments of Team Voltron? Perhaps the brave actions of one particularly daring and heroic paladin? Now that’s something he can get behind.

As the humans are basically representatives of their planet, it’s customary for them to wear whatever traditional clothes they have, which ends up being… the only clothes they managed to take from Earth. It feels vaguely blasphemous to attend something so ostentatious in something so casual, but it's not like that matters to Ga’alusian sensibilities and their limited cultural context. It just kind of sucks that this is the only opportunity he’s had to dress to impress, and he doesn't even get the choice. Obviously, Lance looks good in practically _anything,_ but a purposefully coordinated ensemble never hurts to have.

Oh well. At least everyone's comfortable. And another added bonus, it’s easy to prepare for, which means everybody's basically ready and out the door by now; Lance is lingering a bit behind, but he’s also pretty close to done since he’s had a chance to monopolize the bathroom. Shirt, check. Pants, check. Jacket—

Is currently being shoved into his face like last week’s laundry.

“Here,” Keith says without any lead-in, “and thanks.”

Oh, right. “Gotta be honest here,” Lance says, pushing at the jacket so it’s not quite so in his face, “there’s no way I’m putting that on until it’s been washed at _least_ three times. You can keep wearing it if you want.” After a second, Lance amends, “Or not, since there’s no reason for any dramatic ultimatum this time around.”

It’s an offer he barely puts any thought into but Keith, for some reason, decides this is the one situation that actually requires deep and thorough deliberation. Throwing himself into danger? Nope. Wearing a jacket? Pull up a chair and pose like The Thinker because a choice _this_ important needs as much time as it can get.

“Alright,” he says, finally. “I will.”

It’s kind of annoying how well it suits him, but whatever, that’s that settled, so it’s time to party. “Come on, babe!” Lance holds out his hand, a dangerous grin on his face. “We’ve got a celebration to catch, and a bunch of politicians to make uncomfortable.”

Keith takes it, looking a lot more receptive than he usually does at the prospect of socializing. “How many do you think we can scare off?”

“If it’s any less than ten, we’re getting a divorce.”

 

* * *

 

A divorce doesn't seem to be in their future, because it’s barely an hour in and they’ve managed to fend off at _least_ fifteen politicians. It’s pretty great, actually, because any time either of them are uncomfortable (Keith) or bored (Lance), they just amp it up until they’re left alone, free to goof off and talk about actually interesting topics until they’re approached by yet another courageous soul attempting excruciatingly boring policy debate.

But it’s not like they’re going out of their way to scare _everyone_ off. After all, there’s a number of Ga’alusians that are downright pleasant to talk to, like folks that are grateful without being sycophantic, and folks that are engaged in current events without being a black hole of Political Opinions.

Schass falls into both categories, and by some stroke of luck, she’s actually there. Everybody on Team Voltron gravitates towards her at some point, the way Hunk used to hang around Lance whenever he dragged them to a dance; she’s a glimmer of familiarity in a sea of strange faces. Although, in this case the strange faces are quite literally alien, so maybe the situation is a bit more exaggerated than analogous. In any case, she’s a good break from diplomacy nonsense and a reliable source of positive social energy.

Hunk in particular has been using conversations with her to ward off an alarmingly persistent group of politicians, and now seems as good a time as any to join them.

“Hey Hunk! Some party, huh?” Lance greets, dragging Keith over after scaring off lucky number sixteen. “How’re you holding up, Schass?”

“Tired.” A quick response, but from the way she’s curling her snout, not necessarily a bad one. “We’ve been rushing around trying to help Mom while she preps the reparations bills.”

Keith perks up; the only politics he’s interested in are politics that involve giving somebody a giant legislative middle finger. “Any progress with that?”

“A decent amount, actually! Of course, this is only the first draft, so we won't see much happening for a while, but there’s definitely enough to keep her busy. Not to mention, there’s a lot going on for the naming ceremony tomorrow.”

Now that right there is some potentially relevant information. Lance doesn't even try to disguise his vested interest when he asks, “And how’s that that coming along?”  

Schass flicks her tail, making a sound that’s kind of like if a car engine could sneeze. Or maybe a motorcycle. “I know I’m ready, but as for my moms… they’re excited, but they’re _absolutely_ playing it up as a front for some pretty intense anxiety. They’ve never had to pull something like this together.”

“Wait, hold on a second, but you're...?” Hunk holds up a questioning hand, gesturing vaguely at her. “Wouldn’t they have had to with you?”

“Nah,” Schass replies with a forced sort of nonchalance. “I was a bit too old for that when they adopted me. They wanted to hold a ceremony anyway, considering—” She makes a vague sound. “Anyway, my biological parents were friends with my moms for a really long time, so when they died… yeah. They’re my moms, but they didn’t hatch me. Didn't name me, either.” She looks like she wants to add something to that, but whatever it is she keeps it to herself.

Lance glances at Hunk, getting a fairly alarmed look in response. The both of them are reeling in the periphery of a tragedy, and Lance isn't sure whether they're supposed to press forward and give her the option to talk about it, or back off and let her brush it off.

“That’s rough,” Keith says, before either of them can make a decision one way or another.

“Yeah. It’s… well, it’s not okay, but I’m dealing with it. We all are.” She shrugs— or at least, does _some_ motion with her shoulders— a mild gesture for such a grim topic. After a moment she decides, “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Well,” Hunk starts, “want to hear a joke?”

“Nobody wants to hear your jokes,” Lance shoots back, despite his relief. It’s nice to have a solid conversational direction, whichever way it goes. “You’d need at _least_ three degrees in engineering to even understand your jokes!”

“I want to hear a joke.”

“Keith! Don't encourage them!”

“Too late, already encouraged! Thanks, Keith!”

“Schass,” Lance implores, trying to make her understand the gravity of the situation, “you’re the only one who can stop this. If you don't, who _knows_ how long it’ll take for them to explain every punchline!”

“You learn so much from Hunk’s jokes,” Keith says, yanking Lance out of Schass’ personal space. “You’ll never get the same experience from anyone else, especially since there aren't a lot of humans out here. I think you’d like to hear their jokes.”

“You know what? I think I’d like to hear their jokes.” At Lance’s dramatic groan, Schass brings up a hand (or claw? Paw? Salamander-y phalange stump) to muffle her chittering. “I’m sure they can't be that bad.”

“You say that now, but just wait ‘til you’re three hours into a tangent explaining why the most important part of evolution is how no one can see time!”

“Nope, that’s absolutely not what the takeaway was supposed to be for that, but speaking of evolution,” and off they go, “have I ever told you guys the joke about the Hamiltonian circuit and the biologist?”

“Hold on, there’s _no way_ ‘Hamiltonian’ can be translated. At all! You can't get more Earth-specific than some old math guy’s last name!”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Hunk concedes, then they clap their hands together and turn to the rest of the group. “So, it goes like this: Two biologists from Hamilton are at a conference trying to figure out why their bacteria cultures never survive past a couple generations, and—“

“Oh, Harssa! Little one, it’s been far too long!”

And just like that, the comfortable atmosphere all of them had painstakingly built up gets completely obliterated. Lance doesn't recognize the interloper, but she obviously knows Schass, and from the way Schass goes rigid, she obviously knows her as well.

“Ansshi,” Schass says with the most lackluster facsimile of enthusiasm possible, “it’s… great to see you.”

“Goodness, what are you wearing?” The newcomer coils her snout in obvious disapproval. “I can't _believe_ your mothers would let you attend in fatigues!”

“Full dress counts as formal. I earned this uniform, so I’m wearing it.”

“And where are your manners!“ Ansshi continues, as if Schass exists in some sort of soundproof box. Watching her talk to Schass was like reliving the absolute worst of any given family reunion. His great grandaunt had always been a particularly nasty piece of work, one of two relatives Lance had never gotten along with; her ability to sour the mood was well-documented phenomenon that could probably feed one heck of a research paper. Everyone had their stories about great grandaunt Delilah, and his had to do with the old ham radio she smashed right after he inherited it from a much more fondly regarded relative.

“You haven't even introduced me to the paladins!” Ansshi says, interrupting Lance’s train of thought.

“Of course. My apologies. This is—”

“Ansshi. I’m Harrsa’s father’s littermate,” she interrupts, which makes the whole introduction gripe more redundant than the guard detail on a Galra cruiser. “Of course, I already know who you are, paladins of Voltron!”

“Hey,” Hunk greets, though it comes out a little reluctantly; they’re still mourning the loss of easy banter, and also, the untimely death of their joke.

“I apologize on behalf of Harrsa—”

“Schass,” Schass corrects. “My name is Schass.” She doesn’t look as if she has much hope of that fact sticking in Ansshi’s head.

Lance doesn't know the Ga’alusian way of showing silent solidarity, but he'd sure like to after the way Ansshi chitters. “Right," she says, looking at Schass with some parody of indulgence. “Sorry, it can get so hard to remember.”

“Funny,” Schass says, “you remember exchanged names just fine.”

“Oh, you know that’s different.”

“No, I don’t think I do.”

There’s a frigid tension as they stare at one another. Eventually, Ansshi turns to the group and chitters again.

_“Schass_ ,” she continues, “never knows how to show proper respect.” Ansshi huffs. “Wearing a uniform at a formal event, honestly!”

“Actually,” Keith says, in a jacket that’s never been seen at anything more formal than a toddler’s birthday party, “it’s what Schass had on back when she was helping us fight the Galra. In a way, it’s the most respectful thing Schass could’ve worn.” After a moment, he leans into Lance with all the subtlety of daytime television. “It’s a good thing Lance got her on our side, or we would’ve had a lot more trouble getting out of that one. He always knows just what to say.”

“Oh, stop,” Lance chides, very conspicuously taking Keith's hand while effortlessly falling into role of bashful husband. “Don’t let Keith fool you for a second, I couldn't have done _anything_ if he didn't figure out where the resistance was holed up.”

“Nobody thinks that but you, dear.”

There’s a very specific emotion that comes from being aggressively third-wheeled, whether by accident or design, and Lance knows from firsthand experience that it’s the most obnoxious feeling in the entire universe. At least, from the perspective of anyone who isn’t in the relationship. From the relationship end of things, it’s pretty great, especially subjecting off-putting strangers to this concentrated energy of couple obnoxiousness.

The trick is to aggressively circle back the conversation to each other using any degree of relevance, while being as oblivious to social cues as possible. No matter where the topic shifts, point the compass due ‘significant other’ until circumnavigation and circumlocution are one and the same. It helps that Schass and Hunk seem to be content to leave the brunt of conversational contributions to their mutual friends, far too polite to interrupt the verbal trainwreck.

Ansshi seems to be reaching her limit though; in a last-ditch effort to redirect the conversation to something more socially advantageous, she attempts to direct Lance and Keith’s attentions towards the rest of their team, emphasizing how “together, the paladins of Voltron _must_ be invincible!”

“Well,” Keith demures, “I wouldn't say invincible—”

“—But _we_ sure make a great team,” Lance finishes, very obviously swinging Keith’s hand between the two of them.

“That you do!” Ansshi says brightly. “Thank you for the… engaging conversation. We really must talk more, but I do believe I see someone flagging me down. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She pivots on her heel, marching off to wherever people aren't being entirely too married.

“Wow,” Hunk says, after she’s well out of earshot. “That was _really_ uncomfortable.”

“She has a strong personality.” Schass shakes her head, before giving the happy couple beside her an incredulous once-over. “Thanks for… whatever that was.”

“No clue what you’re talking about,” Lance says, which nets him a look of completely unjustified doubt.

“I’m sure.” She chitters quietly, then makes a sound like she’s clearing her snout. “So, are you two like this all the time?”

“Like what?” Lance asks, projecting as much wide-eyed innocence as humanly possible. Judging from her expression, she’s not very impressed.

“I’ll be honest,” Keith starts, but before Lance can go into cardiac arrest he continues with, “it’s mostly a way to get out of political shop-talk. Though it helps with other situations.”

“Are you saying I’m not the light of your life? Your sun and stars? Your forever-boy?”

“Technically,” Hunk interrupts, “the sun is a star.”

Ignoring their pedantry, Lance places a hand over his chest in the most theatrical show of distress imaginable. “I’m hurt, babe, I really am.”

Despite this delicate display of vulnerability, Keith just rolls his eyes. “Sure you are.”

“I don't think I can recover from such heartbreak.”

“I’ll make the funeral arrangements.”

“You see what I have to deal with?” Lance asks, gesturing to all of Keith.

“Feel free to stop the dramatics any time, dear.”

“Nah.”

“You see what _I_ have to deal with?” Keith asks, a bit too fond for deadpan.

Schass chitters, emanating amusement. “Despite your respective answers, all I’m getting is a resounding ‘yes’. You have my sympathies,” she says to Hunk.

“They’re the worst,” is their solemn response.

 

* * *

 

Keith Junior is really small. Like, Ga’alusians aren't that big to begin with, but even so, Lance wasn't expecting a newborn to be _so small._ They’re about half the size of a loaf of bread, and even the tiny nest they’re ensconced in dwarfs them.  

Lance has about three seconds to stare down at them before he’s expected to move to his place in the large semicircle around the nest and let someone else get their turn to look down at the hatchling, but… they’re so tiny.

He feels a hand at his back and takes the hint, moving to his place. On the bright side, now he has the pleasure of watching Keith stare down at Keith Junior with the baffled stare of someone who knew babies existed in theory, but half suspected it was just a really elaborate conspiracy.

Eventually Keith makes his way over to Lance, slipping into place beside him. “You alright?”

“Me? Yeah. Of course! Never better!” The illusion’s probably ruined by how he’s doing the unnatural amalgamate of shout-whispering, which has never been utilized by an ‘alright’ individual, ever, but Lance is nothing if not committed to his role. “Just nervous enough to puke like Hunk after a lag displacement roll, but aside from that, just fine!”

One day Keith’s going to raise his eyebrows so high, they’ll just disappear into his hair and never return. “Nervous? You?”

“Hey, I may be handsome and smart and charismatic, but I’m only human.” Lance heaves out a sigh, and wouldn’t it be great if he could just breathe out all the bad vibes just as easy. “It’s fine. It’s fine! I’m just setting the tone for the rest of young Keith’s _life.”_

“Lance.”

“Hey, Keith, remember the time your namesake puked onstage right before you got that name of yours? Of course you don’t, you were _just born,_ but those were some wild times! Isn’t it great that you get an embarrassing story before you even knew how to open your eyes! I’m sure you’re looking forward to people telling it over and over again on every single one of your birthdays! Or whatever birthday equivalent there is around here!” It’s absolutely inconceivable that there wouldn't be a birthday equivalent, considering how Ambassador Scimi operates, and while normally Lance would be charmed by that kind of cross-cultural intersection, he’s almost ready to abolish birthdays as a concept entirely. Almost. “‘Keith’ is a name that’s gonna be associated with stage-puke for the rest of their life!”

Keith lets out a breath, shaking his head with a smile. “If that’s the case, shouldn’t I be the one worried about you messing up?”

“Great! Now I’ve got to worry about embarrassing Junior, _and_ dragging your name through the puke while I’m at it. Oh jeez, I’m gonna have to go up any second now, aren't I.” On the bright side, if he messes up, he won't have to live with the consequences for long because the princess is going to kill him. Lance can feel all sorts of anticipatory eyes on him already, and the weight of Allura’s judgmental stare is almost enough to bring him to his knees.

“Hey. Look at me.”

Suddenly, Keith’s in his space.

For some reason Lance can’t get the whole thing about how kissing would look to Ga’alusians out of his head. Which, hey, fits into the vomit-theme that’s plaguing him right now, but at least it’s one social faux-pas he doesn’t have to worry about, and then Keith kind of lurches forward and headbutts him. Or, it’s probably too gentle to be classified as a headbutt. A nose bump? It feels like some awkward, belligerent parody of the snout-nuzzles they’ve seen from the more affectionate Ga’alusians around them, except way more Keith, and after a second of stunned silence Lance can’t help but laugh at the attempt.

“Oh. Oh, wow. Keith, you’re such a _romantic,”_ Lance teases, grinning at him.

“You know me,” is his dry response. It’s hard to say whether he’s being self-deprecating about attaching the slightest hint of romanticism to himself, or about bungling his grand romantic gesture, but in any case he lets Lance laugh it up with barely a roll of his eyes. In fact, there just might’ve been a chuckle from him too. He leans forward, pressing their foreheads together.

“Calm down,” he says, low and quiet. ”You’ve got this.”

“I’ve got this,” Lance echoes, anchoring himself to the weight of Keith’s hand in his own. Strangely enough he does feel marginally calmer, even though his heart’s still going into overdrive.

It’s harder than it should be pull away, and Lance indulges in an extra second (or two, or five,) before he makes his way to the center of the room. By then, everybody is definitely for _sure_ staring at him, but whatever! What’s the point of having a fake space-husband if he can't get some genuine space-comfort.

The crowd looks even bigger now that he’s facing it without being a part of it, but from this vantage point he can also see the rest of Team Voltron. Hunk and Pidge give him a thumbs up from where they're standing by Schass; after a moment, she mimics the gesture with three out of six available appendages. Shiro, right by Aeg and Ambassador Scimi, offers a reassuring nod with an expression calm enough to pass on some secondhand serenity just by looking at it. Allura looks… not as nervous as expected. Maybe it’s because Coran by her side, a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“So,” Lance starts, because if there’s any word versatile enough to kick off a speech, it’s that one. “I’m the paladin Keith’s named after, except I’m Lance now. That lucky fellow over there is Keith. Say hi, snookums!” He calls, making sure to wave at him as obnoxiously as possible until he gets a reluctant wave in response. There’s nothing quite like dragging someone else into embarrassment to lighten the load, and if Lance is good at anything, it’s that.

He waits for the chitters to die down, ice thoroughly broken, before continuing. “Apparently me letting little Keith have that name is like, some great honor for them, but honestly? I’m the one that’s honored. I mean, with the kind of moms they have, with Schass looking out for them, they’re _absolutely_ going to grow up to be kind, and brave, and passionate, and ready to fight for whatever needs fighting for. We should be the ones worrying about living up to their name!” And, as lighthearted as the words come, Lance doesn't even try to mask the embarrassingly candid sincerity in them. It’d be redundant at this point, anyway. “It’s a good thing this kid’s not only named after the best paladin in the universe, they’ve got the next runner-up set to spread that name across the galaxy. Across _several_ galaxies. And if I know anything about Keith, it’s that he’s got to do something ridiculously heroic at least once a day.”

“This Keith’s definitely gonna do us proud,” Lance says, looking over at the small bundle beside him. “Least we can do is return the favor.”

There’s a moment of silence, then the Ga’alusians straighten, their tails making sweeping motions behind them, which is disconcerting up until Coran does what’s _probably_ the Altean equivalent of a thumbs-up, which is kind of like a human thumbs-up but with a lot more gesticulating. In any case, everything’s probably fine. Still a little unnerving, but less so. What's really throwing Lance for a loop is the way everybody's looking at him, too reminiscent of his family at every graduation he’s ever been forced to attend, including his own.

Lance ducks his head, waving his hand in what he hopes is a sufficiently cool acknowledgement before he books it back to his place in the arc. On the way he passes by the officiator, who nods in acknowledgement as they pass.

Lance can handle this, though. He can deal with the sudden upswell of emotion, even as Scimi makes her way to the center with Aeg and Schass, even as Scimi makes what’s obviously a poignant gesture to him specifically, even as the ceremony comes to an end and the crowd gravitates towards the family in a massive, chaotic clump, he can _absolutely make it through this._

The straw that breaks the camel’s back is spotting Hunk trying their hardest to keep sniffles down as they make their way towards him with Pidge in tow, except, the second they see his face the dams burst and the flood’s unleashed which means Lance _absolutely cannot make it through this._

“Quiznak, Hunk! Look what you’ve done!” Lance wails, blowing his nose into the moss-tissue dutifully passed by Keith. It’s a good thing neither of them cleaned out his jacket pockets. “I was _so close_ to playing it cool!”

“Impossible,” Pidge says, though it’s nowhere near as scathing as it could’ve come out. She reaches up to clasp a hand on a shoulder of each sobbing teammate. “There, there, let it all out.”

“They’re— they're just so small!” Hunk takes a handful of moss-tissues from Keith, burying their face into it. It’s not the most efficient method, but it seems to work for them. “They're going to be _so loved!”_

“They are! They really, really are!”

“Should we… do something?” Keith asks, absently rubbing Lance’s back. “Should we get someone, or…?”

“No, I think they just need to cry. Besides, I’m pretty sure the rest of us are making their way over.”

Well! Lance can't really do much to save face, but he’d _really_ rather not be bawling his eyes out in front of Shiro, or worse, Allura. It’s time to pull himself together. Make _some_ attempt at composure. It’ll be fine, he can do this, he’s feeling better already!

“Coran might make it worse,” Pidge adds, a little belatedly.

Coran absolutely makes it worse. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [11/26/16, 11:58:38 PM] Air: by the way i looked up  
> [11/26/16, 11:58:45 PM] Air: so many flight maneuvers  
> [11/26/16, 11:58:53 PM] Air: to figure out what was likely to make hunk throw up  
> [11/26/16, 11:59:11 PM] Air: that line cost me thirty minutes of my life  
> [11/27/16, 12:00:05 AM] Stella: I looked up time evolution in quantum physics for about the same time just to misunderstand it just the right amount  
> [11/27/16, 12:00:17 AM] Stella: Why does Lance need so much research  
> [11/27/16, 12:00:56 AM] Air: he has so many engineer friends  
> [11/27/16, 12:00:59 AM] Air: and is a pilot  
> [11/27/16, 12:01:01 AM] Air: which we are not
> 
> Edit: The end of Hunk's joke is basically, "No wonder your data never evolves! It's Hamiltonian!" Which is a quantum mechanics joke based around time evolution. Basically, time can't be observed, but space can (which is where Lance's misunderstanding came in) and so you can't really track time evolution (your hamiltonian) very well. I think. My grasp on quantum physics isn't very impressive. If anyone reading this is a quantum physicist who wants to either confirm that this joke was funny or that I have no clue what i'm talking about, feel free to chime in and correct me so i can make the joke EVEN MORE engineer-centric - Air


	10. Mutual Incompetence, and How it Somehow Doesn't Ruin Everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol bet you weren't expecting us to be back so soon, but here we are, with the final chapter. more of an epilogue, really.  
> so back when we pulled the soap opera twist, I actually put together [a compilation ](http://obstinaterixatrix.tumblr.com/post/151764357364/) of every time in generator rex this one telenovela showed up. genrex is a good show with a really weird ending, I highly recommend checking it out.  
> most of y'all probably know this by now but I'm on tumblr, and I have a super intricate tagging system. if you ever want to peruse [what I had to say](http://obstinaterixatrix.tumblr.com/tagged/ex%5E2/chrono) while writing this, along with more of the special behind-the-scenes skype convos we like to post at the end, check it out.  
> speaking of special behind-the-scenes content, something we like to do at the end of a big project is [showin' off the outline of our collaborations](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1DBC4Iq-xY3HssaXpBTqw0BwuSUoRlSTqGywHgNx4N7s/edit?usp=sharing). and by that I mean we've only done this once before. there's a lot of fun draft stuff in there that, alas, can't be conveyed in the final product. gems such as [Lance, with egregious hipocracy] get lost to time. since this didn't take as much.... planning.... research..... citing.... cross-referencing...... as the last one did, I'm pretty sure we're just sharing the outline as opposed to like. an annotated version. but there's cut content in there from instances where I unrepentantly gutted scenes that weren't goin our way, a lot of miscellaneous notes, and it gives a little idea of where each of us have our influences. rest assured, despite the lack of annotations, I have full confidence that if you ever want an opinion on any given line of text in this fic, both me & air definitely have Something To Say.  
> I put a lot of myself into this fic, Air's put a lot of themself into this fic and, as always, it was a blast to write with them. it's rough juggling writing what basically amounts to a short novel, and also, schoolwork, so y'all better appreciate their dedication and drive and also their words because! writing! is a lot of words. cherish them. are you cherishing. cherish harder.  
> like all writers, we super appreciate feedback! comments make our day so if you enjoyed the fic, please do share what you liked :V  
> even though I've typed a lot, I always feel like I'm forgetting something. oh well, if it's important, air probably has it covered.  
> \- Stella
> 
> Hey, everybody! Stella mostly covered everything we had to say, so I'm just gonna take the time to thank y'all for sticking with us 'till the end. This started as a planning doc that I never thought would see the light of day, but here we are. That's one of the best parts of having a co-writer; they'll encourage and enable your ideas even when you're not sure it could possibly work out. Stella and I are proud as heck of this fic, and it's such a collaborative effort that if you asked me which lines each of us wrote, I might not be able to tell. It's definitely a greater than the sum of its parts kind of dealio, and I'm so glad to have had this experience.  
> Hopefully reading it was just as fun for you as it was for Stella and me.  
> \- Air

They don't stick around for long after the ceremony ends. There’s barely enough time to bid their goodbyes to Scimi and her family before they’re taking off, already scanning nearby planets for any distress beacons they might've missed on the way, or any that might've been recently activated.

Radar duty’s a lot more boring than it sounds, but it’s still infinitely better than cleaning duty. Cleaning duty’s the absolute worst, but unfortunately, Lance and Pidge are left to the mercy of Coran’s endless anecdotes because Allura has the mind of a steel trap. It was probably too much to hope that she’d forgotten the whole breakfast diplomacy debacle, but getting a space-rag shoved at him sure snuffs out any glimmer of hope on the horizon.

“I don't see why this couldn't wait,” Lance complains, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn spot on one of the healing pods. “They aren't even that dirty! It’s not like they’ll get super gross, like, a day later.”

As rational and well-thought as Lance’s logic is, Coran doesn’t seem that impressed. “And if one of you had to make use of a pod before that day was up?” He asks.

It seems _pretty unlikely_ that anyone’s going to stub their toe hard enough to earn a trip to a healing pod, but also, ‘pretty unlikely’ doesn't mean much in a war against space-imperialism, considering the fact that anything can both figuratively and literally blow up in their faces. Looking down at the rag doesn’t exactly paint a pretty picture; the pods aren't _technically_ that dirty, but one swipe is all it takes to uncover a not-so-fresh layer of weird pod-gunk, which is an incredibly unappealing shade right in the middle of grey and green. And that’s just the preliminary layer of grime, because pod-gunk has the unfortunate tendency to form in layers. Actually, it’s probably time to grab something cleaner to clean with. Lance tosses his rag with a grimace, grabbing a fresh one to dye with the color of filth.

But also, “All I’m asking for is a little buffer between going from ‘Paladins of Voltron, defenders of the universe!’ to ‘Janitors of Voltron, cleaners of the castle!’”

“Don't be ridiculous.” Coran sets down a bucket of water, patting Lance on the shoulder. “There’s no difference between the two.”

“Everyone has to do their part,” Keith says, idly cleaning his knife with a spare rag as he leans against the wall.

Which is rich, coming from the only guy in the room _watching_ everyone do their part. “I don't see you pulling your weight!”

“This is different.” Keith, apparently satisfied with the state of his knife, points it at Lance, _completely oblivious_ to the implications of _pointing a knife at someone, apparently._ But no, instead of doing anything remotely threatening he just continues with, “You’re obviously being punished. I’m not the one that pissed off Allura.”

Why is he even here! “I shouldn’t have to suffer because _a certain someone_ has terrible manners!”

Pidge throws her rag at his face. “Oops,” she says, completely unapologetic, as if she didn't just prove his point.

“Now, now, this sort of behavior is _exactly_ what got you two into cleaning this mess!” Coran tosses Pidge another rag, which she catches with about as much enthusiasm as she’d catch a bomb. Probably less, considering bombs can be disarmed, but a pod stays gross even after hours of scrubbing. “You really must find a better way to get along. Why, when I was—”

“A junior cadet in the Altean boyscouts,” Lance interrupts, familiar with this long-since-exhausted line of reminiscence.

“No, when I was a cadet in the Altean Space Squad Aeronautics Sub-Tech Nano-Weaponry unit, I—”

“Fought a pack of Snorples with your troop,” Pidge contributes.

“It was actually a pack of Sleanda, but I suppose that isn't important. The important thing is, I—”

“Learned the value of teamwork and cooperation,” both Lance and Pidge finish in tandem. And, with the least enthusiasm possible, “Jinx.”

“Well,” Coran huffs, “consider how much more productive you two would be if you displayed such synergy in assisting each other, instead of antagonizing each other.”

 _“Someone_ has to make sure Pidge doesn't get away with everything!”

“Someone has to keep Lance in line,” she retorts. “Everyone has to, actually.”

“And you’re both doing wonderful jobs, except when you subject innocent bystanders to your petty squabbles. It doesn't reflect well on Voltron now, does it.”

Pidge and Lance let out a simultaneous groan. It’s not that they don't get along, but it’s easier, kind of, to fall into a comfortable script. He can't be sure how it is for her, but getting on the case of someone that doesn't respect him at all had been a large part of his life until recently. But, even though it’s never aligned quite right, neither of them knowing when to stop before they've pushed too far, they catch each other’s eye and engage in a quick nonverbal exchange.

 _This is kind of bogus,_ Pidge doesn't say.

 _It really is,_ Lance doesn't say.

But he lets out a sigh, and Pidge does the same before she turns to Coran with an air of resignation. “In the interest of avoiding extra chores, we’ll be better in public. Promise.”

“What she said.”

“Excellent! Now, get back to work. Another hour and we’ll be done for sure!”

 _Another_ hour? “Come on, can't we take a quick snack break? I’m so hungry I could eat these rags.” After they’ve been washed. A lot.

Pidge scoffs. “If you leave this room, there's no way you’d be back before we’re done cleaning it.”

“But I’d come back!”

For some reason, she doesn't look convinced.

“Fine,” Lance huffs, knowing when he’s beat. But all dramatics aside, he _is_ actually hungry, so it’s time to make his fake space-husband pull his weight. “Hey. Hey, Keith. Get me a snack.”

“No.”

Well. Can't say he didn't see that coming. But this, now, this is a battle of will he can absolutely win. “Come on, please? You’re not even doing anything!”

“I’m taking a break.” And no matter how nonchalantly he says that, the smug upturn to his mouth gives away the fact that he’s doing this for the sole purpose of being a stubborn jerk. “Isn't that what you’re always telling me to do?”

Since when!

“It’s what he’s always telling _us_ you should do.” Of course, Pidge has to offer her completely unnecessary and incredibly inaccurate perspective. “Keith this, Keith that, ‘is he _still_ training? Doesn't he _ever_ get tired? He’s going to blah, blah, blah.’” She shakes her head, not even pretending to clean while she talks, unlike Lance, who knows the value of at least _looking_ productive. Coran doesn't seem to care much, though. “Whatever grief you get from Lance, trust me, we get twice as much.”

He’s pretty sure he doesn't actually talk about Keith _that_ much; Pidge is just exaggerating. He’d argue that point, except, he has more important points to argue. Lance’s current strategy to avoid starving to death doesn't seem to be working, so he decides to change his approach.

“Is this how you treat your husband?” He accuses, looking as pitiful as possible. “Leaving him to starve to death?”

“An hour won't kill you, Lance.”

“Wow. I guess we know who the ice-beam really should’ve gone to because you, my dear, are _cold-hearted.”_

Keith looks unmoved, only one eyebow raised, but he’s _definitely_ going to cave. All Lance has to do is amp it up. “Come _on,_ Snookums. Sweetheart. Snugglebug. Sugarlips—”

 _“Fine,”_ Keith concedes, rolling his eyes. “I’ll see what’s in the kitchen.”

Ah, sweet victory. Lance blows a kiss to Keith’s retreating back. “Knew I could count on you, babe!”

“I want a divorce,” he calls, right before the door slides shut behind him.

Pidge screws up her face at him. “The cleaning was bad enough on it’s own without you being absolutely obnoxious.”

Lance rocks back on his heels, shoving his rag-less hand into his pocket. He doesn’t even try to hide the wide, absolutely obnoxious grin on his face. “You're just jealous.”

 

* * *

 

Their vacation ends up extending a little after they leave Ga’alus. At least, there’s a lull in activity, and while it’s not exactly a reliable enough break to fully relax, it’s nice to take a breather from lasers and cave-ins. It’s a pretty uneventful few days drifting through space, but they do stop by what looks like an uninhabited and atmospherically compatible planet just for the sake of breathing air that hasn't been recycled. There’s a pretty large body of water, and while they aren't in dire straits, it’s always a good idea to take advantage while they can.

The thing is, it takes a long time to replenish the castle’s water supply, and Lance would rather not spend all his time around the castle when there’s something _actually interesting_ to check out before they’re back in the boring void of space.

Plus, it seems like a good chance to spend some time with Keith, now that they're friends. Sure, they've spent plenty of time together already, but…he’s easier to be around now that it doesn't feel like there’s an expiration date stamped on any positive interaction between them.

So, once he manages to track Keith down, Lance doesn’t hesitate to barge into his room and offer the gift of his own company. “Hey, we’re here for another few hours; why don't we explore planet-side?”

Keith gives him a measured look. “You sure you don't want to go with Hunk?” He asks, after a moment.

“Nah, I’ll let them rest.” Although their version of rest usually means tinkering with spare parts and not actually resting. “Besides, we’re married, aren't we? We should spend some time together, like good space husbands.”

Keith rolls his eyes, but agrees to go, which would be an enthusiastic response from anyone else.

The planet has a lot to explore. The area they land in is kind of like a clearing in the middle of a jungle, except instead of trees, they’re surrounded by what looks like stationary jellyfish tethered by thick vines that break through vividly ochre dirt. They’re definitely not jellyfish, and probably not alive (at least, not in the animal sense), but the occasional breeze ripples through them and they sway with a gentle motion that’s a little unsettling. Really cool, absolutely gorgeous, and a little unsettling. But that's par for the course when it comes to any alien planet, really.

The ground's mostly stable, but not entirely; patches of moss sprout under the shade of the not-jellyfish, and it's slippery enough that Lance grabs Keith’s hand to keep him steady. After all, the jungle is pretty much entirely shade, and it’d be a bummer if they had to cut their expedition short because of a twisted ankle.

It’s a peaceful walk. Nothing tries to kill them, nothing blows up, it’s just a nice, peaceful walk on an alien planet. Not quiet, though— what’s the point of dragging someone out of the castle-ship without talking to them? Effortless and idle chatter is basically Lance’s whole thing, so he just talks about whatever comes to mind, punctuated by the occasional interjection from Keith. Somehow the conversation drifts into summarizing the plots of various soap operas he’s watched, with him constantly having to refute Keith’s relentless cynicism and inability to enjoy a story for what it is.

“No, listen, it’s not about whether or not he was _actually_ her long-lost twin, it’s about how _despite_ _everything,_ he managed to make his way home again!”

“But being her twin is what makes it home in the first place,” Keith points out.

“No,” Lance insists, jabbing his finger. “No, that’s wrong because it’s supposed to be about the emotions, how it feels when you realize that maybe, finally, he’s reached the end, and he’s where he _belongs!_ It’s not about the logistics, it makes you _feel_ something! That’s effective storytelling!”

“You know what,” Keith says, after a moment. “The more I hear, the more how you’re…” he gestures at all of Lance with his one free hand, “who you are as a person make sense.”

Lance is about to ask what that’s supposed to mean, but there’s something in the way Keith looks at him, exasperated and fond with entirely too much warmth, and it finally occurs to Lance that nothing’s changed between them since the fake-married debacle. As in, nothing’s changed since acting fake-married. As in, they’re still acting fake-married, without any outside incentive. Which is something he should've realized by now, considering he’s been using the whole fake-married thing to his advantage at any given opportunity, but. It’s a dangerous realization to have while rambling about developments in a soap opera.

“Hey, hold the phone, is this—” Lance starts, cutting off his original question of what, exactly, Keith was in the process of putting together, “are we dating? Is this a date?”

Keith looks about as startled as Lance feels. “Wasn’t it supposed to be?” He asks, sounding out the words, and it’s way too uncertain to be a matter-of-fact, rhetorical type of question.

“You don't _know!?”_

“You’re kind of hard to read! Sometimes! I mean, I thought maybe, with the hand-holding—”

“The what,” Lance says, which admittedly is an absurd response to have while still holding hands with someone.

“Look.” Keith yanks his hand back, crossing his arms with a stern set to his shoulders. _“You’re_ the one that asked me to come with, so I guess it’s up to you whether or not this is a date.” It would’ve come off as infuriatingly measured and reasonable, if he hadn’t tripped over the word ‘date’, but he did, which means he’s pretty rattled himself. Which is good! Or, not good! But it’s reassuring! Kind of! Although it would be great! If either of them knew what they were doing!

As it stands, neither of them know what they’re doing. “Why am I the last person to know anything about our relationship!” Lance exclaims, not quite calm enough to frame it as an actual question.

“And whose fault is that.”

“When exactly was this going to come up,” he continues, ignoring a legitimately valid point because he doesn’t really want to deal with it.

“I mean, I did confess.”

_What!?_

“What!?” Lance yells.

“I flat out said ‘I like you,’ Lance; it was an intense moment.”

Alright, there’s no _way_ that’s anywhere _near_ a valid point to make. “I thought it was a friend thing! Not a boyfriend thing!”

“Why can't it be both!” He yells, finally matching Lance’s volume. If this wasn't something currently happening, the fact that they’re yelling about this stuff might’ve been hilarious, but unfortunately, Lance is a little too frazzled to enjoy any modicum of situational humor.

“Don't you turn this around,” he objects, scrambling for any familiar ground to stand on, “if you’ve been _so obvious,_ wouldn't you— you would've tried to kiss me! That's how it goes, isn't it!?”

Keith gapes at him, brows scrunched together, in a way that definitely definitely foreshadows some gargantuan leap of logic. “I— are you asking me to?”

Yep. There it is. “I’m asking a _question!”_ Lance insists, hoping his face isn’t as flushed as it feels.

“Well,” Keith draws out, in a way that spells for retrospective embarrassment ahead, “I mean, I did. I tried, and you slammed your head into my face. I think you left a bruise.”

“You’re so bad at this!” Lance yells, pulling Keith into a kiss before he can think himself out of it. Honestly, it barely qualifies, more a light press of skin against skin than anything remotely romantic, but at this point it’s more of a relief to have _one_ understated development rather than _a string of mortifying catastrophes,_ considering their collective track record.

Keith stares at him, still close, and doesn't pull away from Lance’s grip on his shoulders. Instead he settles a hand to rest hesitantly on Lance’s waist, looking way too awestruck for what some clumsy barely-a-kiss warrants. “I think you mean _we’re_ so bad at this,” he says. “I’m not the one who only realized we were dating after being married for a few days.”

 _Really._ “You're really gonna be like that?”

“Yeah. I am. You haven't even asked me out yet.”

To be fair, they’ve kissed and also been fake-married which kind of bled into accidental dating _but_ just _springing_ that on him is enough for Lance to jolt back in some residual panic. He’s never going to understand the Keith thought process. “Why do I have to!” It’s not that he doesn’t want to, just! Why!

“I’m the one that confessed,” Keith explains with an irritating sort of authority, as if there’s some official _protocol_ to this whole— this whole _thing._

“Fine. Fine!” It’s ridiculous, but whatever! Anything to make some headway in this emotional river of molasses. “Will you go out with me.”

Keith has a look of consideration on his face, which, wow, really? _Really?_ Come on. “Huh. Is that all there is to it?”

And alright, _maybe_ Lance regrets not having anything prepared, like, if he knew he was going to actually seriously for real ask someone out ahead of time he’d _at least_ try and pull a bouquet together, at the _bare minimum,_ probably more depending on how big a production he would’ve been able to make of it, but hearing that kind of sentiment just automatically sets him on the defensive. “What are you talking about! ‘Is that all,’ this isn’t a _proposal!_ I’m not going to rig _fireworks,_ or—”

“I didn’t mean it like that, it just seems easier than it’s been so far.” Alright, that’s fair. Everything leading up to this has been one heck of a long, drawn-out tango of mutual incompetence. But that’s apparently not all there is to it, because Keith looks uncharacteristically timid, which is an adjective that’s just, well, the opposite of who he is as a person. “I’ve never had something like this before.”

Oh, fuck.

“There’s nothing to it,” Lance says with a lot more confidence than he feels. “As long as we both want it, and it makes us happy, we’ll figure it out. That’s all that matters. There isn't really just one right way to do this, y’know?” He’s seen it done wrong enough on TV (and firsthand) to know that. Although, he could? Be doing this wrong too? He really hopes he isn’t doing this wrong. “I mean, this… this _is_ what you want, right?”

Lance tries not to wilt under Keith’s scrutiny, and fails miserably because in hindsight that came out a lot more vulnerable than it should’ve.

Then Keith reaches up and pulls Lance into another kiss, one with a lot more lingering intent behind it. When they separate, he looks at Lance, the coarse fabric of his ridiculous gloves doing surprisingly little to insulate the warmth of his hand, and yet, it feels positively frigid compared to the heat of Lance’s face.

“Yeah,” Keith says. “It is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [12/3/16, 1:34:41 PM] Air: manually typing  
> [12/3/16, 1:34:44 PM] Air: Altean space squad aeronautics sub-tech nano-weaponry unit  
> [3:34:47 PM] Air: is a Treat  
> [3:35:05 PM] Air: because the wiki didn’t let me copy and paste for some reason  
> [3:48:36 PM] Stella: Wild


End file.
